


Something to Prove

by gatoradeeh7x3



Series: Something to Prove [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Cuddy and Lucas is minor, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy ending though, House is a jerk, I try, M/M, Sick James Wilson (House M.D.), Slow Burn, Someday, bc they're both idiots so they need a push, but it's like a wisdom tooth surgery so nothing serious, comedic?, doped up on anesthesia for plot progression, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2020-10-25 00:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatoradeeh7x3/pseuds/gatoradeeh7x3
Summary: When House suddenly wants to initiate a relationship with Wilson, Wilson is overjoyed. The feelings he'd held for years are finally mutual.Or are they?





	1. Chapter 1

As the smell of barbecued chicken and sizzling burgers wafted over from where Lucas and House were arguing over the tongs, Cuddy’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you two. But… how?”

Wilson’s response came in the form of a shrug that was just as bewildered. He crossed his legs in the lounge chair to prepare himself. “Trust me. I’m just as lost as you.”

~~~

It had never been a secret between the two of them that Wilson wasn’t exactly 100% heterosexual. Once, years ago, before Stacy or the infarction, he had even harboured an awkward crush on House that both of them were all too painfully aware of. Wilson’s failed attempts to repress his feelings had reminded him of being in seventh-grade and blushing every time he spoke to Mr. King, the English teacher. House had done his part in tamping down the crush by ramping up his verbal abuse, burping loudly during movie sessions, and launching into in-depth analyses of his poops every time he returned from the washroom. Eventually, the crush passed naturally and they both breathed sighs of relief when Wilson found himself checking out the hot, new ENT specialist. 

So it came as a definite surprise that day, almost a decade later, when House marched up to him and mashed their mouths together. They were at the medical conference where Wilson had planned to commit career suicide and confess to medically-assisted death, and the two of them had just headed back into the hotel room. House disappeared into the washroom and Wilson tried not to worry about his reaction to seeing Cuddy and Lucas happily playing with Rachel. As it turned out, that wasn’t what he needed to be worried about. 

The door of the washroom smashed open, startling Wilson who dropped the granola bar he had been passively nibbling at. Wilson turned around to complain at House, only to find the older man standing inches away. Before Wilson could even draw his eyebrows into a question, House gripped the sides of his head and started kissing him. It was aggressive and the room felt way too warm all of a sudden, but Wilson couldn’t protest because it was _ House_. And when the man in question pulled away and sheepishly asked if they could take things slow, Wilson could only look up at him with a flushed face and wide eyes and say _ yes, yes, yes _ because he had waited for the better part of two decades already so what was a bit more? 

Three weeks into their relationship and Wilson was confused. Absolutely nothing had changed. Wilson had moved in with House and had tried everything to get the man to initiate any form of romance whatsoever. He’d arrange elaborate dates that House would complain through until they’d end the night watching daytime television as usual. Any form of intimate touch was batted away with a frown and a look of disgust that House would barely manage to hide. The only thing that elicited any sort of reaction, however minor, was his cooking. Any time Wilson made House a meal, he’d be rewarded with a peck and an awkward pat on the head. It went to show how much he was craving attention that he began making him three meals a day. 

Wilson could only draw one possible conclusion. House was regretting this. 

Wilson had meant to confront him about his theory, seek some form of resolution, when House suggested that the two of them go over to Cuddy and Lucas’ place for a barbecue. His voice was strained and he couldn’t meet Wilson’s eyes, but he did call it a double date and that was, for now, enough. They could save the talks for later. 

~~~

  
  


But of course, Wilson didn’t tell Cuddy all of that. He couldn’t, not when she was already thinking House wasn’t a reliable partner. Besides, even the abridged version had her shocked. 

“Wow,” she breathed, tightening her cardigan around her chest. “Sounds… complicated.”

Wilson barked out a humourless laugh. “You can say that again.”

Cuddy threw him a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry. House wouldn’t risk your friendship unless he was certain he had feelings for you. You’re one of the only good things he's got.” 

An uncertain smile thanks her for the reassurance.

While the two of them are talking, House is nervously glancing their way from the grill, where he’s holding the basting brush hostage from Lucas.

Cuddy points it out to Wilson with a knowing smirk. “See? He’s worried you’re bitching about him. That shows that House cares what you think, and he doesn’t care about what _ anyone _thinks.”

That comforts him a bit, enough to change the subject to enquire after her relationship. “So what’s going on with you and Lucas? He’s been competing with House for the alpha male title all day.”

This was true. When they arrived, Lucas and House had fought over the Grillmaster apron, fiercely debated the best grilling technique, and raced to assemble the folding chairs and patio umbrella that Cuddy and Wilson were now enjoying. Even now, they could hear Lucas loudly proclaiming, “The grill is my canvas!”

Cuddy rolled her eyes fondly. “We went to go pick Rachel up from daycare a couple of days ago, and she was playing jump-rope with her friends in the yard. The school mascot is this little pitbull, like “Go-o-o-o-o Pitbulls!” or whatever. He rushed the kids, tail wagging along, probably to play with the rope. And, well…”

Wilson’s eyes were sparkling in amusement. “Lucas got scared?”

Cuddy snorted. “Screamed like a little girl.” 

The two of them laughed heartily and Cuddy took another sip of her Palm Bay. “Anyways, ever since, he’s been trying to prove to me that he can be a great dad and husband, as if I even care! The important part was that he was there.”

Suddenly, a cold wind swept in from the east. Cuddy shivered and tucked her hands into her armpits. Wilson’s strategy was to cross his arms in an attempt to trap as much body heat as possible. Lucas noticed first and his eyes lit up as he spotted an opportunity. He abandoned his futile attempts to grab the basting brush from House and sprinted into the house, jumping over Rachel’s toys and dodging branches. He emerged triumphantly, carrying his prize for Cuddy and the world to see - a blanket. 

Cuddy was trying to hide her smile as she thanked him. House, meanwhile, was watching the scene bitterly. Lucas had gained massive Alpha Male™ points for his heroic dash. Never to be beaten, House limps over with his own token, which he throws at Wilson. “You’re cold, right? Here.” 

“House, this is the winter tarp for the grill,” Wilson says, unfolding the massive black cover. 

House sighs dramatically. “So high-maintenance. Suck it up.” 

He ruffles Wilson’s hair and glances at Cuddy analytically before limping back to the grill, speeding up in alarm as he sees that Lucas has snuck back, having now commandeered the grill. “Hey, dimwit! Stay away from the 'canvas'!”

Cuddy and Wilson share a look of amusement. 

She takes the blanket Lucas got her and lays it over both of them. They lounge there for a few minutes in a content silence. After a while, he lolls his head towards her, one thought bothering him. “Lucas, I understand. But what is House trying to prove?” 

She squeezes his hand and looks at him with pity. “You moron. He’s trying to show you he cares.” 

As much as he wanted to believe it, it didn’t make sense. Try as he might, House’s actions just weren’t lining up. The timing, the nervous glances, the pissing contest with Lucas…

Suddenly, a horrifying thought hit him. He got up wordlessly, with a small gesture to Cuddy that he hoped communicated that he was heading to the washroom. He stumbled there, the few beers he had suddenly leaving him completely and sickeningly sober. Wilson stood in front of the mirror, his hands gripping the sides of the sink as he tried to convince himself it wasn’t true. He started shaking, in anger, frustration, sadness, and some other incommunicable emotion as he realized the likelihood of his theory. 

House wasn’t trying to prove anything to him. 

He was trying to prove something to Cuddy. 


	2. Chapter 2

What Wilson would usually do when convinced he was being deceived by House would be to return the favour, engage in a childish back-and-forth where they’re each trying to one-up the other. It was a way of trying to impress each other, a way of staving off the boredom.

Wilson thought about it. How could he mess with House the most? He could try initiating sex, to see how committed House was to his deception. He could break up with him and complain to Cuddy. Wilson even considered “accidentally” coming out to the entire hospital and their families about the relationship, because it would be fun to see House squirm. 

But Wilson was done with games. He wanted the facts straight out of the bastard’s mouth. He wanted, for once, some fucking honesty. 

His plan of action decided, Wilson gathered himself. A check of his watch confirmed that the breakdown he’d just went through, that felt like a lifetime, had only taken fifteen-or-so minutes. He thought wryly, _ my presence won’t even be missed_. 

Heading back out through the screen door, Wilson maneuvers his way through the playground of Rachel’s toys that had been showered on Cuddy from any and every doctor with ambitions of moving up in the hospital hierarchy. He accidentally steps on one, a vintage Tickle Me Elmo, and Elmo begins laughing uproariously in his high-pitched refrain. _ At least one of us is having fun_, thinks Wilson, in one of those moods where everything seems to reinforce his dejected state. 

House, Lucas, and Cuddy are sitting around a patio table, the meat glistening and ready to be eaten. House checks his watch upon seeing Wilson and whistles in appreciation. “Gone for fifteen minutes? Looks like someone was clearing space for more food.”

Cuddy pulls the plate she’d saved for Wilson out of House’s greedy reach and passes it to Wilson, who’s sat down on the couch near House. “Space he won’t need if you don’t keep your eyes on your own burger.”

“Whoa, tiger. I’m looking out for you here. There’s only one plumber in the entire Princeton area that can unclog the toilet after Wilson’s gone. Want his number?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Cuddy states, albeit a bit uncertainly. 

Wilson, flushing angrily, asserts, “No. It won’t.” He takes a massive bite out of his burger, but half the contents end up spilling out the other end. Lucas quietly passes him a napkin. 

House shrugs, ignorant to Wilson’s plight. “Your loss. Fifteen minutes means it was a big one.” He turns, leering at Cuddy’s cleavage as she rolls her eyes. “Speaking of big ones…”

Lucas protests, “Hey! That’s my girlfriend.” 

House raises his hands in an innocent gesture before pointing at Wilson. “Hey! That’s my _ boy _friend. Gay now, remember?” 

Wilson bristles silently before adding drily, “Yes. You have no interest in women whatsoever.”

House gasps, pretending to be hurt. “I only have eyes for you, honey-boo!” He places an arm around Wilson’s shoulder, pulling him close as if to demonstrate his point.

They stay like that for the rest of the day. It would have felt nice, the warm weight of House’s arms on his tense back in the chill of an almost-fall day - at least, if it wasn’t for House’s furtive glances towards Cuddy to gauge her reaction. Instead, it felt like lead, weighing him down like his depression on a bad day. He needed to unburden himself. 

~~~

After they get home and House plops on the couch with the newest issue of _ Deadpool _ , Wilson makes his way to the kitchen to stow away the leftover barbecued goods Cuddy had sent with them. He had protested, of course, but Cuddy could tell that something was wrong. Before they left, she’d even intercepted him at the door to tell him that she was always there if he needed to get something off his chest. _ If only she knew… _

Speaking of getting something off his chest, Wilson thought that there’d be no better time to bring up his suspicions. House had just taken his daily Vicodin so he couldn’t blame anything he said on the pain, and Wilson’s own anger had died down into cold numbness. He only felt a bit nervous. _ Nervous! _ As if he’d been the one to do something wrong. 

“House,” he called shakily. No answer. 

“House!” he continued, louder and more certain now. 

The lump on the couch let out a world-weary sigh. “I’m reading, mommmm.”

Wilson walked over to the couch, snatched the comic from him and threw it across the room towards the piano. He placed his hands on his hips. “House. You’re using me to get to Cuddy.” 

There was a triumphant moment where House seemed to freeze. Seconds later, though, he looked up and met his eyes. The blue pools were even, neutral. He grabbed the nearest journal from the table, flipped it open, and with one line, completely blew Wilson’s demeanour. “Good. About time you figured it out.”

Wilson almost exploded. “Good. Good?! I’m sorry, _ what?! _”

House groaned as he sat up, looking accusingly at Wilson. “You should be sorry. That was a brand-new copy of _ Deadpool_. I had to ride around the whole town looking for it.”

Wilson’s lost for words, and House sees this, takes pity on him. “Look, you want me to be happy, right? Cuddy makes me happy, and this is how I get her. It’s a solid plan. I would have loved to tell you, but that kind of would have ruined the purpose.”

Wilson is yelling now, his hands waving in the air aimlessly. “Yes, what an amazing plan! Get the woman of your dreams by pretending you’re into men. That’ll work out swimmingly.”

House snorts. “Have you seen the woman’s porn history? Me being into men ups my trade value.”

Wilson’s eyes are bugging out. “Gah!” He spins around, brings his hands up to his neck, and composes his thoughts. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by House from the important points as always. 

“Why me? Why not hire a hooker?” He’s stuttering over his words. House at least had the decency to look a bit concerned. 

“She wanted me to show her commitment. What better than dating the one friend who stuck with me through it all?”

“Through too much.”

House rolls his eyes. “Stop being dramatic. So I don’t want to jump your bones. Big deal.”

Wilson is gripping his fists so tightly that his nails are drawing blood. He breathes in, slowly, dangerously. “You think that’s what this is about? You really think that the reason I’m angry is because you don’t want to fuck me?” 

House retorts, “Seems like it.”

Wilson shakes his head, a short motion that cuts through the air like a guillotine. “**No.** I’m angry because you’re throwing away a decades-old friendship for some pathetic attempt at getting a girl to notice you.”

“Oh, come on. You knew the relationship wasn’t real. You were just blinded by some crush from years ago.”

Wilson lets out a bitter laugh. “No, House. I’ve liked you for a long time, God knows why. But despite that, I kept it in, got married twice since I met you. You know why?” His voice cracks and a treacherous tear falls that he wipes away angrily. “Because _ I _cared about this motherfucking friendship!”

House’s voice is gruff. “Wilson…”

Wilson ignores him, noticing idly that the blood from his palms left a streak of red on his face. “Not a day passed by in the last few weeks that I haven’t spent freaking out about everything. How being with you could ruin… this. How the timing was off. How you’ve been phoning it in for every date, devising reasons to avoid touching me. I made up so many excuses for you. I even let myself believe that your war with Lucas was meant to prove something to me.” He coughs, ashamed. “That you were turning things around.” 

“It was a stupid plan. I know I don’t deserve her.” House is pleading now, his eyes tracking Wilson’s hands with worry. “Just… come sit down. I’ll buy you a drink. Ten drinks. I’ll order takeout. Something.” 

Wilson’s staring blankly at his things, strewn around House’s place. He’d been so eager when he moved in. Although it was only a few weeks ago, it felt like he was remembering an entirely different James Wilson. _ What about the Wilson before he met House? _ He asked himself. _ Who was that guy? Did he ever even have a chance to find out? _

He couldn’t stay. “I’m leaving,” he heard himself say, and he started moving on autopilot to gather and fill a bag. 

House sits up straighter and scoffs. “You’re not going to go; you_ invented _ the phrase ‘don’t go to bed angry’. No, you’re going to sit and watch TV on my couch and lecture me until I feel something that resembles guilt. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even manage to draw out an apology from me.” Despite his callous words, his expression was vulnerable as he looked up at Wilson, nervously playing with his cane. 

Any other time, this sort of off-handed method of repenting would have been enough. Wilson was used to taking these scraps of humanity thrown at him and fitting them into this romanticized version of House in his head, one that actually gave a damn. But now, he saw those scraps for what they really were. 

Wilson’s brown eyes are filled with contempt stemming from this discovery. “Look at you, House! Even now, you’re still taking our friendship for granted. You’re right about one thing. You _ don’t _deserve Cuddy.” 

He grabs his bag and is halfway out the door before he hears House call, “Wait…” Wilson turns at the door, despite everything, _ hoping _. 

House looks down at the floor and back up at Wilson. A long and uncomfortable silence stretches between them and House hates himself for what he’s about to do. “You won’t…”

Another pause, one that feels more like an end. 

Wilson sighs, resigned. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Cuddy.”

House nods gratefully but it’s gratitude Wilson didn’t receive because he’s gone, out the door with his ridiculous nail clippers and coupon books. 

As House stared at the only remaining evidence of his best friend, the drops of Wilson’s blood on the carpet that would never come out, the realization hit him. 

He didn’t deserve Wilson either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof this chapter hurt me to write


	3. Chapter 3

Lucas was whistling as he finally got the motor of the lawnmower going, glancing occasionally at the windows of their house to see if Cuddy was awake and appreciating his Suburban Dad act yet. He’d woken Rachel up early in the hopes that she’d play on the swings and help his image, but she conked out on his shoulder as soon as they made it out the door. This was probably for the best, since he recalled belatedly that Rachel hated loud noises. 

It suddenly came to Lucas’ attention that a figure was making its way up the driveway. Based off of the limping gait, he made an educated guess that it was House, and was rewarded as the man pulled closer. However, this wasn’t any House he knew. His face was gaunt and haggard, and he’d clearly gotten no sleep based off of the bags underneath his eyes. Lucas refrained from making any comments on his appearance, though, because the grip on his cane looked deadly. 

Lucas asked, almost accusingly, “What are you doing here?”

House surveyed the domestic scene in front of him and grimaced. “I’ll say this once and never again. You win.”

“At what?” 

House tossed a Vicodin back. His voice was strained, and he was clearly forcing the words out. “You’re the better man, alpha male, whatever. You. Win.” 

Lucas’s eyes widened but he tried not to look too happy. An innate survival instinct within him told him that celebrating would likely result in serious injury. He struggled to keep his voice even. “Cool. Uh… thanks. What brought this on, exactly?”

His question would go unanswered. With one last cursory glance at the life Lucas and Cuddy had built, House turned away and made his getaway, his limp more pronounced than ever. Lucas could only stand there and shrug helplessly, chalking this down as one more addition to the mystery that was Gregory House. 

~~~

House was staring across the balcony at Wilson’s office, and the only thought crossing his mind was,  _ We should have gotten a prenup. _

Now that Wilson couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him, House found that his bank account was depleting because of the perplexing and bothersome activity of actually buying his own food. The younger doctor, meanwhile, had taken to eating in the oncology lounge with his department or in his own office while Skyping his parents or friends from McGill.

_ The man’s paying three alimonies _ , House grumbled to himself.  _ You’d think he could buy me an ice cream sandwich or two.  _

Wilson’s disapproving voice rang in his head.  _ New Jersey State Law doesn’t apply to unmarried couples. Or  _ fake  _ relationships.  _

House shook the oncologist’s voice and the ensuing wave of guilt that came along with it away and went back to sulking and refreshing his bank statements. 

The day after the fight had been bad enough. House had sent Foreman to Wilson’s office in the morning with a first-aid kit to patch up his hand, but his mission was unsuccessful. Foreman had found Wilson’s office door closed and his assistant out front waiting to intercept him. She told him that Wilson’s schedule was all booked up, but that she could make him an appointment at the earliest opening, two days later. 

_ An appointment! _ House reacted. The message was clear. The easy path of communication between the Diagnostics Department and the Oncology Head had been severed, and they had all been relegated to the normal, pedestrian contact method - scheduling. 

On the occasions when House and Wilson ran into each other in the halls, their eyes would meet for a second before Wilson would wince and look away. There were none of the angry or sarcastic comments that House felt he deserved. Instead, Wilson would keep his eyes on the floor, pull his mouth into a tight line, and adjust his lab coat or fidget with his files while walking stiffly past. House would just stand there like a lost lamb, trying to fight back the nausea that came with seeing Wilson’s hands bandaged up. 

House paged the Oncology Department for consults several times. Each time, someone who was very much not Wilson would appear. 

Days passed. Sporting matches that they had bet on came and went, and House couldn’t bring himself to be joyful that he’d won a prize that he might never be able to collect on. A regular from the Bowling Stones saw him on the street and chased him down, asking why he and his friend were missing on Wednesday. Wilson’s fruits and vegetables were slowly rotting in his fridge, and House managed to eat a week’s worth of Wilson’s abandoned frozen meal plans in three days. He’d started rationing them, saving them for days when he felt he deserved a reward, like when his leg hurt or when he cured a patient. 

The deepest cut came when Wilson made an irregular visit to Human Resources.

House, seeing Wilson leave his office, sent Chase to stalk him. Chase came back thirty minutes later, whistling, impressed. “I don’t know how you managed to piss the man off, but Wilson just sent in a request form to remove you as his medical proxy. Congrats.” House had angrily sent Chase to run a battery of undesirable tests, and spent the rest of the afternoon pondering the exact moment he had exchanged Wilson’s trust for his disdain. 

House was used to drawing epiphanies from Wilson’s presence. He didn’t realize that Wilson’s absence would lead to an epiphany of its own. 

Wilson’s disappointment in him hurt far, far more than Cuddy’s ever could. 

And Cuddy was the only one who could help him. 

It was this revelation that brought House to Cuddy’s doorstep at four in the morning. When she opened the door in her robe all irritated and confused, he inhaled and gulped before reminding himself that Cuddy had chosen someone else and quite frankly, so had he. 

“I need you to help me get Wilson back.”

Cuddy had been labouring for two whole weeks under the idea that they’d broken up over House’s vicodin abuse (the story Wilson had went with), and her eyes lit up from annoyance to eagerness, hope. “Of course! But you’ll need to tell me everything that happened.”

House cringed. “I was afraid you might say that.” 

Twenty minutes later and Cuddy was furious, whisper-shouting at House that he was a manipulative bastard, calling him names like cruel, idiotic, a bad friend. Her righteous anger filled the quiet living room, and had an almost cathartic effect on their target. At least someone was angry on Wilson’s behalf. Eventually, though, it got to be too much. He thudded the cane on the ground, not loud enough to wake Rachel or Lucas up but loud enough to pause Cuddy’s rant.

He looked up at her questioning face, eyes red-rimmed. “I’m sorry. I know.”

She laughs humourlessly. “You know what? I don’t think you do. I’m actually glad for Wilson. He’s finally getting away from your insanity.”

“He needs me, and I need him,” House glares. 

“Wilson doesn’t  _ need  _ you. You’re the needy one.”

“You’re right,” he retorts with a harsh vulnerability. “I am the needy one. I need to know that he’s still taking his antidepressants. I need to know that someone’s driving him to visit his brother in hospital or volunteer at the soup kitchen. I need to know that he has someone to watch him when he drinks, remind him that he’s a total lightweight. I need to check in with him after one of his patients die, need to make sure he doesn’t get his heart broken by blondes in Accounting. I need to know he’s okay, okay?”

Cuddy appraised him for a long second before deflating and massaging her temples. “You really want him back, huh?”

House snorts. “No kidding.” 

She sighs, finally sitting down. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but fine. You need to show him what you just showed me. That you  _ care _ , House. No more scraps, no more half-hearted attempts. Effort. Are you even capable?”

House looks out the window, where the early morning light is starting to stream in. “It’s not like I have any other choice.” Nevertheless, a smile starts to tug at his mouth as a game plan starts forming and he’s excited by a puzzle for the first time in weeks. 

Effort. He could do that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, things are looking up and the next chapter will be from Wilson's perspective. Sorry about the long wait, but thanks for all the comments!


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson was dying. 

Of laughter, at least. 

He had just had a patient come in with what she called _“__seasonal cancer _". If that wasn’t bad enough, he asked her to direct him to the part of her body where she allegedly spotted the lump and she pointed easily enough... at her ankle bone. The woman had somehow managed to make it through 54 years of life without noticing that ankles existed. 

Wilson has his pager out and already has House’s number dialled in before he realizes, and he goes from dying of laughter to letting his laughter die. 

_ Oh. _ And like every other _ oh _ that had hit him this week, every realization that his best friend had chosen a woman before him, Wilson combatted it by throwing himself back into his work. 

Wilson is typing at something close to 120 words per minute when the woman in question stalks into his office. When he looks at Cuddy’s face, melted into a mixture of fondness, regret, and sympathy, he knows. 

_She_ knows. Which means House told her. 

Before Wilson can open his mouth and tell Cuddy that he’s okay, she plops down firmly in the chair and says, “I can’t fire House.”

Wilson blinks slowly. “And… I wouldn’t want you to.” 

She continues on as if she never heard him, moved by a fierce protectiveness. “I can’t fire him but just say the word and I’ll arrange it so that you never have to see him again. You’ll have different rotations, different shifts. Do you want your office moved? I can do that. I’ll do that right now.” Cuddy pulls out her phone, fully prepared to make the call. 

Wilson smiles affectionately. “That won’t be necessary.”

She sighs, feeling helpless. “Are you sure?”

Wilson looks down at his lap, feigning surprise. “I just checked, and it looks like I have my big boy diapers on today, so yes. I’m sure.” There is no harshness in his retort, and his tone is reassuring instead of resentful. 

Cuddy laughs and leans forward, placing her hand on top of his maternally. “If it means anything, I had no idea he was planning to break your heart.”

Wilson turns his hand so their fingers are intertwined, and he squeezes gently. “If it means anything, I’m glad that it was at least you he did it for.” 

They sit quietly, until Wilson breaks the silence. 

“So… _ you _watch gay porn?”

~~~

After that hilariously awkward talk with Cuddy, Wilson was humming as he reported to the Clinic. His good mood was ruined, however, when he saw that the waiting room was filled with what appeared to be an entire high school, all looking green at the gills and fighting over the only trash can in the clinic. He winced when he saw one boy donning a varsity jacket elbow another in the face before emptying the contents of his stomach onto the magazine table. 

The nearest nurse on duty, Joyce, chuckles at his reaction. “Grad brunch gone wrong. Food poisoning.” She checks the clipboard to sign him in, then looks up at him, confused. “As much as I’d love to stay and chat, what are you doing here? Your hours are covered.” 

Wilson’s just as puzzled. “They can’t be. I always do Tuesdays.” 

With perfect timing, Cameron hurries out of one of the examining rooms and grabs napkins from the front desk, rubbing at a vomit stain on her lab coat with little success. She takes a deep breath and a look of determination sets on her face before she heads back in. 

Joyce nods at Cameron. “She’s taken your hours today.” She runs her hand down the clinic schedule. “And Foreman’s taking your usual Thursday, Chase’s got your Fridays, and huh. Doctor House took your shift Saturday. Good thing I’m not working then.” 

Wilson grabs the clipboard from her, and flips through the calendar. He seemed to be covered until October 18th, which meant that he had the next three weeks off clinic duty. He checks his watch for today’s date and does some mental calculations under his breath before it hits him and he hands the clipboard back wordlessly before wandering off. 

It wasn’t just the next three weeks that were covered. It was the next three weeks, two days, and ten hours. The exact amount of time House spent “fake dating” him. 

Wilson feels a flutter of warmth. House was trying to give him back every second of his time he wasted. 

That warmth is soon replaced by coldness, though, when Wilson remembers that three week’s worth of clinic hours isn’t nearly enough to cover the amount of time he spent looking for and moving into a new apartment, re-purchasing all of the items he left behind in a rush at House’s apartment because he had too much pride to go get them back, or remaking his meal plans. And what about the 18 years he invested into their friendship, that House just threw away? 

Wilson doesn’t realize he’s stopped in the lobby with angry tears prickling, threatening to escape, until he hears the ding of the elevator and he takes a shaky breath to compose himself. House’s gesture may not be enough, but it does suddenly give him a lot of free time. Free time he spends pondering over House’s next few moves. 

~~~

Wilson is yelling at 82-year-old Mr. O’ Brien, trying to explain his dosage to him at a decibel-level high enough for his nearly-deaf ears to comprehend. By the time the aging man left, Wilson’s voice was dry and cracking from all the screaming. He tries to call his assistant for water but the new-fangled voice-controlled department communication system mistook his croaked calls of "water" for "daughter", and Wilson wasn’t about to take the chance of getting reported to HR for implying that he’d like his employees to call him Daddy. 

So Wilson made the trek to the cafeteria himself, bee-lining straight to the fridge and searching for some iced tea. Of course, they were all out, and Chen from Radiology pats him on the back sympathetically in passing and calls over his shoulder. “Someone just took the last one. Sucks!” 

Wilson consoles himself with the knowledge that the tea was way overpriced anyways. If House was there, he would have said that it’s prices like these that keep the black market kidney trades alive and in business. 

When Wilson gets back to his office and the last tea is sitting on his desk with a lozenge, he’s forced to accept that maybe House isn’t as cheap as he thought. 

~~~

The next time he finds something unexpected on his desk, it’s a few days later and Wilson has just spent six hours sitting with a dying seven-year-old in his last hours while his thoughtless parents were snowed in at a ski resort in Montana. Wilson may never shake the image of the boy crying silently as his parents tried uselessly to apologize and comfort him over speaker phone. 

The saran-wrapped plate of cookies on his desk surprises him out of his tragic stupor, and he approaches it cautiously. There’s a note, which he picks up. 

_ “My mom sent this for you. Recipe’s attached.” _

Wilson chuckled as he remembered that Christmas at the House residence when he spent hours raving over Blythe’s ginger cookies while House mocked him. He’d rolled his eyes and said, “Stop sucking up to her, you’re wasting your time. Mom hasn’t even told _ me _ the recipe and I came out of her-” at which point Blythe playfully slapped him across the head with an oven mitt and Wilson had been too busy laughing to notice that John House had calmly and quietly commandeered the entire plate of cookies to eat in his armchair. 

Back in the present, the oncologist’s eyes widen in excitement and he reaches for a cookie and bites in with an almost orgasmic moan as it hits his taste buds. A thought ruins the afterglow. They were somehow still warm, freshly made. Blythe wasn’t in town, he’d know about it, she’d call him. And there’s no way these cookies would stay this warm, unless Blythe’s secret ingredient was a bucketload of preservatives. 

House had made these. Which meant that he’d called his practically estranged parents, convinced Blythe to cough up the secret. 

Wilson blamed the warmth spreading through him on the delicious blend of ginger and nutmeg. 

~~~

Wilson has a migraine that’s killing him. It feels like a construction crew installed themselves in his head and are jackhammering away at his temples. He cleared his schedule and retrieved the blanket from his bottom desk drawer, preparing to sleep it off on his couch. An obnoxious ray of light was shining directly on the couch, though, and Wilson heads to close his balcony blinds when he sees House standing at the railing, staring off into nothing. 

House turns his head, notices Wilson standing there, and there’s a second of extended eye contact before Wilson’s head pulses in pain again and he closes the blinds before House can see his weakness, shuts the world out. He plops down on the couch and groans as he arranges the blanket over himself. A gasp of pain escapes his mouth at the tumultuous hospital noises coming from the hallway. They were all being _ so loud… _ he screws his eyes shut and covers his ears until he finally manages to drift off into a restless sleep. 

When he wakes, headache thankfully retreated, it’s to complete silence. Wilson checks his watch, confused. It wasn’t night yet. In fact, it was still mid-day, so why were things so quiet? He rubs at his eyes, and staggers out into the hallway curiously. He is shocked to find himself completely alone. What the hell?

Soon, he found the answer. Someone had arranged yellow caution tape on either end of the hallway and a massive sign was up. Emblazoned across it was “GAS LEAK. STAY AWAY OR DIE!” It was very clearly House’ handwriting. Wilson snorted despite himself, if only to hide the way his heart was soaring.

He sees Chase tip-toeing as he rounds the corner and sneaks under the tape, trying to make as little noise as possible. When he spots Wilson, he freezes and looks around fearfully. 

“Shit. I didn’t wake you up, did I? Is your head feeling better?” 

“No and yes.” Wilson points at the empty conference room. “Where are you coming from? Where’s the team?” 

“House’s making us do the differential in the morgue but it’s _ freezing _down there. I came to grab a sweater.” Chase’s eyes light up as he remembers something and he pulls a bottle of migraine medication out of his lab coat’s pocket, tossing it easily at Wilson. Wilson catches it and just stares at the label, his sleep-addled brain still processing. The prescribing doctor was House. 

Chase laughs at the sluggishness in his movements. “You’re half asleep. Take one of those pills and go back to your office, catch a couple more hours.” Wilson thanks him and follows his advice, with one last look at the sign. 

Lying on that couch with all that silence, though... Wilson is far too busy thinking to fall back to sleep.

He needs some advice.

~~~

The next morning, Wilson finds himself in Cuddy’s office, describing the week’s events as he paces back and forth. She watches with a knowing smile. He was frustrated, confused. House was being so nice, but…

Wilson digs his palms into his eyes as he finally stops his erratic movements to sit down. He sighs. “How do I know this isn’t part two of his plan to woo you? Another way of showing that he’s capable of making a relationship work.” 

Cuddy raises her eyebrows thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of that. Hmm…” She surveys her friend and employee carefully and makes a decision. She knows this isn’t her fault, that she didn’t ask House to fall for her, but she can’t help but feel guilty. There was only one way now to reassure Wilson that House was doing this for him. She picks up her phone, dialling a number from heart. 

Wilson furrows his brows. “What? Who are you calling?”

Cuddy looks up at him as the phone rings and a devious smile plays across her lips. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”

The person on the other end of the phone finally picks up and Cuddy presses the phone against her ear. 

“Hi, Lucas, baby?” she begins. “Do you mind if I try seducing another man?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw I'm totally ignoring all of the other drama that was going on during season 5 like Chase and Cameron or whatever, I only set it at this time to get some sweet Lucas and Cuddy in there but with original drama-free ducklings lol  
Hope you liked this chapter :) trust me, it was a lot more wholesome for me to write than the angst XD  
Comment with which one of House's gestures you found the sweetest!


	5. Chapter 5

House was reclined at his desk, getting increasingly frustrated as he fiddled with a remote-control monster truck. He didn’t look up as he heard the clickity-clack of heels enter his office, even after Cuddy cleared her throat. 

“Greg…” she purrs. 

House snorts. “First names? Really? I thought you had more dignity than that. Abandoning your somewhat righteous anger with me just to get me to do some clinic hours? Forget about it. I’m already on the verge of collapse just doing Wilson’s. Patients _ask _for him.”

“Yes, well, that’s an unfortunate consequence of actually doing your job.” Drat. She’d let herself get drawn into the banter. She tried to put things back on track. “What’s got you so distracted?”

House frowns as he pokes a wire in the toy. A spark flies out and lands on a pile of files. He manages to snuff out the fire before it escalates though. “I got one of Wilson’s hairless half-pints into this Rutgers clinical trial. Thought I’d deliver the news in style.” 

Cuddy hides her smile. “He’ll like that,” she says, simply. 

House scoffs. “You kidding? His little heart’s going to explode.” The validation seemed to satisfy him, though. 

Cuddy clears her throat once more, and House finally looks up. He gapes, looking like a fish out of water. She had her arms crossed underneath her breasts, pushing them up to curve gently out of her lacy burgundy blouse. Her hair curled tantalizingly at her bare shoulders, and her eyes were flirtatious. 

House’s little heart might have exploded a bit at the sight too. 

~~~

Lucas and Wilson were hunched over Wilson’s desk, leaning in to catch every word of the exchange on the small speaker they’d attached to Wilson’s desktop. Lucas never would have been okay with this whole plan if he hadn’t attached a small P.I. audio recorder to Cuddy’s hospital badge. Then again, if his posture was any indication, Lucas still wasn’t completely on board. 

His face was twisted in agony. “Did you hear how she said Greg? She never says _ my _ name like that!”

Wilson shushes him furiously. “I’m trying to listen!” 

Lucas hums thoughtfully, his hand on his chin. “Is it because Lucas is two syllables? Are monosyllabic names inherently sexier?” 

Wilson idly pats him on the back. “She loves you. A lot.”

Lucas levels a look at him. “Yeah, well, she didn’t move heaven and earth to get my patient into a clinical trial. Trust me, I’m not the only loved one here. Remember how I met you?”

Wilson remembers the months after Amber died all too well. He hides the pain that swells in him with a dry tone. “Yeah, when you conducted a covert undercover investigation in my _ support group _.” 

Lucas chuckles at the memory of his best work before glancing at his new friend. “An investigation paid for by…?” 

Wilson lets out a small smile, thinks about the major smile he’d see on a little girl’s face when she learned she’d been accepted into the Rutgers trial. “Okay. So maybe I just want to make the bastard squirm a little first.” 

Lucas smirks. “Hey, the man tried stealing my girlfriend. I can get behind that.” 

Together, they turn back towards the speaker, waiting. 

~~~

House coughs, his throat suddenly feeling dry. He glances at Cuddy’s cleavage before forcing his eyes back up to meet hers, his voice weak. “Huh. Did Princeton-Plainsboro suddenly get a new dress code?”

Cuddy struts over to his desk, the scent of expensive perfume wafting over him. She leans over seductively. “Mmhmm. I read your petition to the Board. I know you’re all for freeing the nipple.” 

House’s eyebrows skyrocket at the implication. He searches frantically for a topic of distraction. “Rachel! How’s Rachel?! Your daughter. Remember her?”

Cuddy smiles tightly. “I do, in fact. Rachel’s looking for a new daddy now.”

She pauses, whispers.

“Looks like I am too.” 

~~~

Lucas and Wilson are dying of laughter. Wilson’s holding his chest and wheezing, while Lucas is face-palming, wide-eyed with second-hand embarrassment. 

“Holy... Where is she getting these lines?” Wilson manages to puff out. 

Lucas shakes his head in wonderment. “I don’t even know. Not from our bedroom, that’s for sure.”

Wilson meets his eyes. “Thank God.”

This sets them both off laughing again. 

~~~

Fortunately for everyone (except House), the lines seemed to be working. House’s eyes were comically large, and Cuddy wishes that the little device attached to her badge recorded video too, if only to hold this moment over House for the rest of her life. The man seemed frozen, and Cuddy decides that this was her moment to strike. 

She strides toward the door, vaguely hearing House sigh in relief behind her, thinking she was leaving. _ Not today, loverboy _, she thought, before immediately chiding herself. Even her thoughts were getting in character. 

Cuddy draws the curtains closed on the glass walls, letting her hand linger on the drawstring for a bit longer than appropriate. She slides back to House and behind his desk, making sure to let her hips wag a little. 

House is in full panic mode now. He wheels his chair back as far as possible and a noise escapes him. 

It didn’t escape the two eavesdroppers, though. 

~~~

“Was that a… squeak?” Wilson’s ears are at attention, struggling to capture every sound. He feels like he’s watching the season finale of _ El Fuego Del Amor. _

Lucas nods solemnly. “Cuddy can have that effect. Fifty bucks says he’ll be calling out for God soon.”

Wilson’s eyebrows rise. “House? Mr. Atheist? I’ll take that bet.” 

The banter between them was the only thing keeping Wilson from dwelling on the inexplicable butterflies in his stomach. 

~~~

Cuddy whispers in House’s ear. “It’s time to test this thing between us, don’t you think?”

Without further ado, she shushes House’s protests with her finger on his mouth, the finger soon being replaced by her own lips. 

Cold nose, chapped lips, and stubble.

That’s really all she can process before House firmly but gently pushes her away, his hands clutching her shoulders. His eyes are regretful but determined. 

“Oh God, no… I can’t- _ Wilson. _” He stammers. 

Cuddy smiles. That’s all she needed to hear.

~~~

Twenty minutes later, Cuddy rushes into Wilson’s office, having made a tactical retreat. She immediately beelines toward Lucas. “Oh man, that was awkward. The man tasted like old Reubens.” She leans down and kisses Lucas, sighing happily. “God, that’s better.” 

Lucas smiles up at her, reassured of his lover’s loyalty. “Nice excuse, by the way. You think he’s really going to believe that the nurses dared you to do it?”

She shrugs. “It was the best I could think of. The man’s still in there right now, looking shell-shocked. Speaking of…” She whispers, giving a pointed look at Wilson, who is zoned out, clearly torn with processing this new turn of events. “How’s he dealing?” 

Lucas shrugs in return. “Poor guy has a lot to think about. And also owes me fifty bucks.”

The two softly say their goodbyes to Wilson, but he doesn't respond. 

The young oncologist is far too busy reconsidering what he’s willing to forgive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait between chapters, but I must have rewritten this chapter a dozen times. I'm still not completely happy with it but eh. I want to continue with this story and one little snag shouldn't stop me!  
Love to all the commenters and kudo-ers and the silent readers <3 Happy 2020!


	6. Chapter 6

Honestly, the only thing holding Wilson back from rushing over to House’s office was embarrassment. How could he possibly go back to being friends with the man after admitting that he had romantic feelings for him?

_ Had? _ Wilson pondered. _ Or has? _ Because that would make all the difference. If his stupid little crush was gone, then they might be able to go back to something resembling normalcy. Or, at least, as normal as House and Wilson’s friendship ever was. 

_ But this is House we’re talking about! _ He reminds himself. The man who loved to mock and humiliate and tease, twisting Wilson’s insecurities into weapons of mass destruction. Going back to House now would give him the nuclear codes to Wilson’s heart, and that power was not to be taken lightly. Sure, he’d play nice for a bit, but a year or two down the line and this incident would become ammunition, just like his divorces had. 

And Wilson wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle that, if he’d be able to laugh it off and chalk it down to friendly banter. 

After all, Wilson had finally accepted that House would never be into him. That was apparent after how he’d reacted to Cuddy. No amount of cooking or beers or romantic gestures would ever let him produce that reaction in House. 

Wilson sighs and realizes his legs are starting to cramp from all the sitting. He decides to get up and stretch them, maybe grab a coffee. 

He makes his way down to the independent cafe and bakery on Main Street, desperately distracting himself from his thoughts on the walk by humming a show tune and idly noting his surroundings. 

Finally acquiring his flat white, he heads over to the coffee counter to grab a sleeve for his cup. Staring off into the distance, he ponders whether or not to grab a sugar packet or Stevia. Deep in deliberation, he makes the mistake of looking up and catching the eye of that attractive new doctor in NICU. Wilson snaps out of his reverie and acknowledges him with a nod and an awkwardly raised hand that he doesn’t know where to place afterwards. The tall blonde man nods back and throws him a gentle smile that reveals profound smile lines. Like an idiot, Wilson adds a pepper packet into his coffee by mistake. 

Because that was another thing. If Wilson did manage to move on from House and recover their friendship, Wilson might want to date. Guys. It was something he’d refrained from doing for the last decade or two, mainly because his mind was set on a certain diagnostician. But Wilson’s track record with women combined with the fact that it had been _ so long _ since his last time with a guy meant that he’d likely be looking in the male department for his next relationship. 

And while House’s acceptance of his sexuality was all well in theory, who knew how he’d react when Wilson actually found a man? 

Wilson smiles tightly back at the NICU doctor before ducking out the door and making his way back to the hospital. 

All of this contemplation was pointless anyways. It was based on the House Wilson thought he knew, but if the last few months had taught him anything, it was that House was always capable of surprising him. For better or for worse. 

Wilson mentally tables the topic. There was a steep incline on the way to the hospital that always required his full concentration to avoid falling and embarrassing himself. He’d called his city representative about the potholes and cracks in the sidewalk more than once, but she’d always rebuffed him with empty promises that he’d remember when voting in the upcoming municipal election. 

Ahead of him, he sees a wheel-chaired old man, likely in his eighties according to his balding head and wrinkled face, being pushed forward by another senior. Their journey seemed precarious as they moved up the hill, the standing man huffing and puffing determinedly. Wilson subtly hovers nearby, ready to jump in at any moment to help.

The balding man twisted his head to look up at his (friend? partner?) with barely-guarded concern on his face, grumbling. “Mick. Mick!”

Mick halts their progress, using the excuse of fiddling with his hearing aid to catch a breath before continuing onward. “Yes, Ollie?”

Ollie watches him with a frown. “If you didn’t give all your money away to those ungrateful bastards you call grand-kids, you’d be able to afford a hearing aid that works. _ And _ a hot nurse to push me around.” 

Mick squares his shoulders against a new wave of exhaustion and rolls his eyes. “No amount of money would convince someone to endure staring down at your ugly dome. Shut up and enjoy the ride.” 

Ollie snorts. “Hey, a five-dollar dinner in 1974 and you’re still hanging around, dumbass.” A companionable silence falls over the two. Wilson notes with some amusement the flaming anarchy flag hanging on the spokes of one of the slowly-turning wheels. 

The wheelchair was moving so slowly, in fact, that impatient pedestrians twist around to pass the strange pair. One businessman in a particular hurry manages to violently jostle Mick with his elbow. Wilson barely manages to jump in and support him before he crumples and falls.

“Are you okay?” Wilson asks, and Mick nods, turning to thank him with a grateful smile. 

Meanwhile, Ollie seems like he’s about to get out of his wheelchair and brain the businessman, who hadn’t even bothered to pause in his rush. He growls lightly, both at the retreating man and his uncooperative legs, until Mick lands a placating hand on his shoulder. They share a silent yet meaningful look and Wilson suddenly feels terribly out of place in their little bubble of a world. He excuses himself, feeling a pang of loneliness as he walks off. 

In that moment, all Wilson wants is his best friend. 

A sudden certainty washes over him despite all his misgivings. House’s efforts over the last few weeks may not have earned him forgiveness, but they’d earned him a chance. A chance to let them become that weird old pair, slowly climbing the hill. 

It was time to see if he'd take it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was more of an introspective chapter but Wilson is on his way to forgiving House... I'm torn between making the next chapter House POV or Wilson POV so vote in the comments which perspective you want to see!


	7. Chapter 7

Wilson was finishing off a falafel sandwich in his office when he heard a commotion from the conference room. He set down his wrap carefully, tilting his head in confusion. The sound of frantic movement was interrupted by the beeping of his pager. 

_ Oncology consult for diagnostics _ -GH

Until then, Wilson had been sending his senior head, Dr. Kostya, for most of the Diagnostics consults, mainly because the man was the most serious doctor he’d ever seen. Sarcasm flew over the Polish doctor’s head, making him the perfect adversary for House. 

Recalling Kostya’s solemnity brought a chuckle to Wilson’s face. He would never forget the debacle nine years ago, when the Oncology Department came together to throw Kostya a small birthday party in the lounge for his 34th. The nurses and doctors had decorated the room with confetti and banners, and Wilson grabbed a cake from McCaffrey’s. When the man walked in after his afternoon rounds, they had all started singing. Kostya stood there, tensed like a soldier, his eyes widening in alarm. 

Wilson later detailed to House how Kostya glared at them all for the entire duration of the song until their voices trailed off in fear. Wilson had stepped forward and tentatively handed him a slice of cake. The man picked off a crumb and deemed it adequate before setting down his plate. He spent the rest of the afternoon standing intimidatingly in the corner of the room with his arms crossed, silently watching them all as they awkwardly made small talk. Wilson eventually put him out of his misery, ending the party early. Afterwards, the uncertain oncology department even signed a letter of apology and left it in his mailbox. 

House, still recovering from the infarction, had doubled over from laughter after hearing Wilson’s dramatic retelling of the incident. Wilson, perched on House’s bed and proud of himself for making his friend slightly less miserable, had grinned in return and made House promise not to shout “Happy Birthday!” at the poor man every time he passed him in the halls. 

Sitting in his office now, debating whether or not to answer the consult himself, Wilson wondered if House even remembered the story. 

~~~

House stood in the conference room, belting out orders at his fellows. 

“Chase! Put the cake on the table and light the candles already! Foreman, if you don’t get that party hat on your bald head right now, I’ll smack you with my cane. Cameron, stop fiddling with the decorations or I’ll fire you and you can become the event planner you were obviously destined to be. Now, team… get in position!”

The fellows reluctantly grab party poppers from the table and arrange themselves in front of the door with only three mutinous looks, which House considers a win. Kostya would be through the door in moments, assuming Wilson got his page. 

All of House’s other plots to annoy the Polish doctor had failed miserably in the face of his stern exterior, and this was his last chance. That prank Cuddy had played on him had brought things back into perspective. He would harass Wilson’s entire department into submission if that was what he needed to get Wilson back in his office, answering his consults. 

It wasn’t until Wilson himself was walking through the door that House realized that his plans wouldn’t be necessary. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s gaping until Foreman nudges him, smirking. 

He breaks out of his daze to smile weakly at Wilson before turning to his fellows, wide-eyed and flustered. “Abort!” he mouthed violently.

His fellows either didn’t understand him or pointedly ignored him, because soon confetti was flying over the two of them and Chase, that Australian bastard, was beginning to sing the birthday song. 

Wilson was way too calm about all this, taking in his surroundings with amusement. He groans, palming his face. “House… you weren’t planning to…”

House shakes his head furiously, using his cane behind his back to snag the garlands off the wall. “Nope. Definitely not.”

Wilson keeps his face neutral. “Ah, so the cake that says 'Happy Birthday, Kostya' was just an afternoon snack?”

House lunges and grabs Cameron’s white coat off her chair and tosses it over the offending pastry, ignoring Cameron’s yelp of protest. He struggles to keep his expression even. “What cake?”

Wilson nods once slowly, unconvinced. He turns to Chase. “You can stop singing now, you know.” 

Chase breathes a sigh of relief. “My voice was getting tired. I think I might go grab a drink, actually.”

He heads out the door, gesturing forcefully at the other two fellows to follow him. They’re just as eager to leave, streaming out quickly.

House and Wilson quietly watch them go, Wilson picking confetti out of his hair. After the door shuts behind them, House leans back against the conference room table, competing emotions tangling up in his chest as the two are finally alone for the first time in two months. 

He tries to keep the desperation and hope and guilt out of his tone as he meets Wilson’s eyes sheepishly. “Okay, so maybe the jig is up.” 

A silence stretches between them. 

Wilson’s mouth quirks at the side into a small smile. “ _ Maybe? _ ” 

And then the two are laughing hysterically and it’s like nothing had changed, like House had never trod on their friendship, like things could be  _ okay _ . As their giggling and snickering dies out, House’s joy transitions into vulnerability and he clears his throat. 

Wilson looks up at him, fiddling with his watch clasp, his guards completely down. House knew he was trusting him not to mock for once. 

His voice is dry as he opens his mouth, hoping to communicate all the remorse he felt in two words, his voice drenched in emotion as he looks down. 

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a simple confession. House isn’t gauging Wilson’s reaction to calculate the odds of forgiveness, isn’t evaluating the pros and cons of showing his weakness in such an admission. It’s just something that needs to be said. 

He can feel Wilson’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t bother regulating his emotions. He lets Wilson read him, afraid of what he’ll find but willing to take that risk, take any risk. 

Wilson takes a deep breath. “House, you’re a jerk and you crossed the line...”

House nods, feeling his stomach drop. He’d have to respect Wilson’s decision, whatever it was. 

Wilson tilts his head and looks at him inquiringly before sighing.

“...but at least you know that.” 

House looks up, disbelieving. Hope filled him. 

Wilson raises a conciliatory eyebrow, and the decorations in the room make him feel like it’s his birthday and he’s receiving the best gift of all. 

“Hungry? We can grab Giuseppe’s.”

House means to say “I’ll do you one better” and suggest a fancy new French bistro, but his traitorous mouth betrays him and he ends up saying, “I’ll do better.”

Wilson looks surprised, but smiles at him, satisfied and a bit sentimental. “I know. So... lunch?”

House can’t help but return the smile. “Giuseppe’s it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, finally! Wilson has mostly forgiven House! Seems like the end, doesn't it? But no... this isn't a friendship fic, remember? ;). We have a good ways to go until House and Wilson get together, and I hope you'll join me on this fun ride!  
Love reading all the comments! Let me know what you think about this chapter... was it as fun to read as it was to write? <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait again! Between New Years and my philosophy paper, I was swamped... but I made this chapter extra long to compensate. Enjoy!

Slowly but surely, House and Wilson began to regain their balance. Their lunch at Giuseppe’s had been remarkably effortless, despite Wilson’s reservations. Wilson was, as always, amazed by how House managed to switch on the charm and lead a conversation when he wanted to. House told him about the case he’d taken on with the famous novelist whose inconsistent characterizations and plot holes revealed a brain disorder. Wilson chatted about sports games and the newest reboots of his favourite old movies. The elephant in the room never came up, and it didn’t need to. With every laugh and attentive noise and fist bump, the elephant shrunk and shrunk until it was an ant that House squashed by paying the bill. Wilson still couldn’t believe it. 

~~~

Cuddy and Wilson sat in her office, taking a well-deserved tea break after having spent the day poring over a proposal for a new oncology ward. 

Wilson slumped back on the couch, setting his tea down carefully before speaking. “So, how have things been with you and House?”

Cuddy wrinkles her nose. “I’m glad you brought that up, actually. It’s weird. For once, he’s _ not _ making comments about my ass.”

Wilson’s eyes widen and he sits up excitedly. “Really? You too? I thought it was just me he was suspending all innuendo with.”

Cuddy throws up her arms. “It’s unbelievable. I dropped a vial of blood on my lap yesterday! I stood there and said ‘I’m _ wet _ ’ and he didn’t say anything. Not even a menstruation dig. He just got me a towel and asked if I wanted _ privacy _.”

Wilson makes a shocked intake of breath. “House? Our House?”

She shrugs and sips her London Fog. “Maybe he’s finally maturing enough to respect his colleagues’ rights and claims to respect in a professional setting?” 

Wilson furrows his brow. Cuddy assumes a thinking pose.

“Or… loss of libido could be a symptom?” Wilson finally suggests. 

The tension drains out of the room as Cuddy jumps up, relieved and eager.

“I’ll do the blood draws!” 

~~~

The topic of Wilson’s new apartment had come up over dinner and House was eager to see the place. He stood near the front doors, watching the fat snowflakes drift slowly through the sky as he waited for Wilson to grab his coat from his office. He’s zoned out so far that by the time that he turns to greet Wilson, he seriously wonders if he’s went back in time. 

House points at Wilson. “I thought we discussed that we were moving past the 2000s?”

Wilson was in the old coat he’d owned near the beginning of his friendship with House, that he apparently _ kept _. It was a coffee-coloured parka with a white faux-fur inside that snuck its way up to Wilson’s collar and into the hood. House is attacked with nostalgia, remembering how he used to drunkenly steal Wilson’s coat just to nuzzle his face into it. 

Wilson flushes with embarrassment, grumbling. “One of the peds threw up on my other coat and this was all I had.”

The red patches on each side of Wilson’s face only succeeded in making him look even younger, and House cuts off his brain before it starts drowning him in even more sentimental memories. He realizes he hasn’t said anything in a few seconds, so he throws his arms up in surrender. “Hey, as long as you’re not sporting frosted tips tomorrow…”

Wilson chuckles and they’re back in comfortable territory as they head out the door. 

House heads towards the parking lot, expecting Wilson to drive him to his new place, but Wilson stops him. 

“Parking’s hell on the street and I still haven’t figured out the permit with the city. Let’s just take the bus for now.”

House is skeptical. “There’s no parking garage in your new building?”

Wilson doesn’t answer the question, just leads him to the stop. 

As they wait in the biting cold, House turns to Wilson. “So are you ever going to tell me why Cuddy ran up to me today and asked to do a blood test?” 

Wilson mumbles into his scarf where his face is buried, seemingly talking to himself. House strains to hear him. “He’s not sick or on any new medication… so I guess he was just being _ nice _?” 

Before House can figure out what the hell that means, the bus arrives and they get on, fighting through the crowd of people at the door. A seat opens up and Wilson shoves House down into it before he can complain, somehow knowing that House’s leg was just beginning to ache. House hated buses in general. All the starting and stopping messed with his already precarious balance. After an embarrassing incident where a sudden brake had left him sprawling on the ground, he’d sworn off busses as one of those other things closed off to him because of his leg, like _ sports _ or _ shower sex _. 

Wilson had always been good at breaking down those invisible societal barriers for him, not that House would ever tell him that. One of the perks of having another doctor as a best friend meant he had an obvious physician to put on record. Speaking of…

House looks up at Wilson, who’s trying his hardest not to bump into anyone. “Mama and Papa Wilson called me yesterday, told me that they wanted you to reinstate me to my rightful position as your medical proxy.” 

Wilson stares at him. “No, they didn’t,” he retorts, albeit a bit uncertainly. 

House just stares back, eyebrow cocked in challenge, truth on his side. They actually had called, all concerned and parental-like that something horrible must have happened to either House or Wilson for Wilson to change his proxy. House had reassured them, playing the part of devoted BFF while trying not to blurt out, “_ I fake-dated your son! _”

Wilson grabs House’s phone from his inner breast pocket and signs in with his fingerprint (registered as soon as House bought the device), scrolling through his caller ID. He smirks at the phone triumphantly. “They’re not here.” 

House holds in a laugh.“Nope, they’re there.”

Wilson squints at the phone, before spluttering in shock. “You have my parents in your phone as _ Head Jew _ and _ MILF _?!” 

House fails at holding back his laughter when Wilson is forced to apologize to a young mother with a stroller for screaming MILF in a crowded bus. Damn, he had missed Wilson. 

After House’s laughter dies down and Wilson pretends he isn’t secretly amused, the oncologist rubs his temples. “Fine. I’ll reinstate you as medical proxy... on one condition.” 

House leans back in the bus seat before remembering the weird stain he’d seen back there and shifting forward again. 

“I’m getting my wisdom teeth removed on Friday and I need you to pick me up after the surgery.” Wilson braces himself. 

House looks incredulous. “What are you, 19? 42-year-olds don’t just get their wisdom teeth removed for funsies.”

“The dentist recommended surgery when I was 23, but with my brother going missing and Sam and working two jobs and _ exams _…” Wilson sighs in regret, his hands in his pockets and looking small. The bus makes a sudden stop at a red light and Wilson stumbles, almost toppling over before House shoots a hand out to steady him. The touch seems to ground Wilson enough for him to keep going. 

“...I just never got it done. After a certain age, it’s not worth it if they’re asymptomatic because of the potential complications that arise in older patients. I clean them well and I thought I was in the clear once I passed 35.”

House frowns, knowing there’s more. “But?”

“A cyst formed underneath the lower left wisdom tooth near the nerve. If it grows any bigger…”

“It could impact the nerve and you’ll lose all feeling in that region of the mouth. What the hell, Wilson? Why wouldn’t you tell me about this?” House knows it’s a routine operation now that the dentists had caught it but he can’t help but be annoyed that he hadn’t been privy to any information. And a surgery is a surgery. 

Wilson shrugs defensively. “I don’t know. We didn’t talk for a while and I didn’t want to suddenly burden you with my medical problems when we were having fun catching up.” 

Damn Wilson and his ability to guilt him. “I want all of the information on your dentist, every copy of the scans, _ and _ your dear little diary. Got to see what other secrets you thought would be a ‘burden’.” 

Wilson smiles slightly. “Guess that means you’ll be picking me up?”

House rolls his eyes. “And dropping you off. Maybe they’ll even let me oversee the operation if I ask nicely enough. Just doing my job as your_ primary physician _.” He emphasizes the words to reinforce the point, reminding Wilson to carry out his side of the agreement. 

Wilson suddenly presses the button signalling their stop and House screws up his mouth in confusion when he hears the automated voice announce the street name. “You should have told me you wanted to stop by a strip club first. I would have worn my good pair of boxers.”

He’s already being ushered out the door by his friend, though, who stops to thank the driver. “Ha. Ha. No, House, I live here now.”

House disbelievingly eyes the street they’d landed on. There was a run-down convenience store in the corner and the scent of weed filled the air. A stray dog, thin and rabid, growls ferally at them from behind a bent wire fence. 

“You’ve decided to take up residence in a _ crack house _?” 

Wilson urges him to walk further down this hellscape. “It may not be the best neighbourhood, but the apartment’s real nice, a hidden gem.” 

House is still reeling. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that the last sighting of your brother dearest happened a block away from here?” 

“No! Bonnie showed me this place. Great price for the square footage!” Wilson insists. 

“She really is the worst realtor in New Jersey then.” House holds his breath as they pass by an overflowing dumpster. 

Wilson stops in front of an apartment complex, gesturing grandly, and House won’t admit that it’s decent, compared to the rickety buildings surrounding it.

Instead he says, “Yes, because having the nicest place in this particular neighbourhood totally won’t put a target on your back.” It was meant to be a sarcastic dig but House realizes as he says it that Wilson being mugged is now a legitimate concern in their world. _ What the frick? _

Wilson dismisses his concerns with a way-too-nonchalant wave. “I put in a good security system.”

He pulls out a keycard and scans it, letting House enter first. It’s surprisingly modern and spacious on the inside, with sleek detailing and Wilson’s little knick-knacks and the quilt that Head Jew and MILF had made for him adorning the living room. House’s attention was really caught by the huge flat screen TV. Distracted and caring little about the kitchen or bedroom, he plops down on the couch and starts flipping through the channels.

“You paid for ESPN+ _ and _ DAZN?” House calls to the door, where Wilson is securing three different locks. 

Wilson takes off his jacket and hangs it up, grabbing House’s from the floor and offering it the same attention. 

“Typical. The man whines about how horrible my place is and now he’s right at home,” he announces to the ceiling, as if asking for divine providence. 

House grins, his head ensconced so deep in the comfortable couch his ears are almost engulfed. He sniffs the air. It smells like leather and fresh linen and coconut macaroons in a way that really does signify home, minus one thing. 

“Food.” House whines.

Wilson’s already reheating leftover curry in a pan and grilling naan before House can complete his customary howl of hunger. House glances at Wilson and back at the coffee table in front of him, a little smile playing at his lips. This really was the best way to unwind after work. 

Wilson drops a plate in front of him with two types of curry and just as House is convinced nothing has changed, Wilson jokes, “Don’t worry, I’m not expecting a kiss.”

House freezes before gulping, suddenly embarrassed. “That was-”

Wilson seems just as sorry for making the joke, “No, you don’t have to-”

The air is awkward between the two of them until the commercial break for the channel House has on ends and they hear the sounds of the Maury Show. They were doing a paternity test on a man who denied his wife’s child, claiming that she cheated on him. Wilson and House’s eyes widen in unison as the woman starts twerking on stage as she shouts “This man be ho-ho-ho-ing it up!” 

Wilson sits down next to House, unable to tear his eyes away from the spectacle. “Twenty bucks says he’s the father.” 

House points at the child on screen as the audience awww’s. “No way that baby’s white. I’ll bet you fifty that she’s been ‘vacationing’ in Mexico.” 

When their plates are empty and Wilson’s forking over fifty dollars, the moment of awkwardness has completely faded into the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you imagine a little House bringing his mom and dad on the Maury Show and forcing them to do a paternity test? That would make for good ratings, actually lol.  
Note on the technology in this story: I've brought House and Wilson into the modern world a bit, mainly because it's just more convenient tbh. Hope no one minds.  
Teaser for next chapter: wisdom tooth removals do have a habit of leaving people all loopy and honest...  
Anyways, thanks for all the comments and kudos everyone! I was really worried when this plot bunny came into being that the House fandom was dead, but y'all show me that House is immortal ;) See you guys next chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's even longer than the last one lol. Enjoy!

House pulls into the parking lot of the dentistry centre at high speeds, hearing a faint thump as the Volvo’s front bumper nicked a concrete stopper. Wilson sounds like a pregnant lady conducting breathing exercises in the passenger seat as he grips the armrest tightly. 

“House! I asked you to drop me off at my surgery, not give me a heart attack before I get there!” he glares, his voice gratifyingly high and pitchy. 

House smirks. “Bet you’re not worried about the operation now, though, right?” 

“If that police officer had seen us, there wouldn’t be an operation.” It’s a half-hearted complaint. Wilson’s far too busy looking vaguely impressed at the little Volvo’s ability to book it. He pats the dashboard like a proud father. Soon he’d be calling it “champ” and taking it to baseball games. 

House interrupts the Wilson-Volvo bonding time by grabbing his chocolate milkshake out of the cupholder and taking an obnoxious slurp. He shoves it in Wilson’s face, “Want some?”

Wilson sends him a death stare before looking woefully at his stomach, which rumbles pitifully in discontent. “Not funny.”

House pretends he’s having a revelation, slapping his forehead in faux consternation. “Ohhhhhh. It totally slipped my mind that you weren’t allowed to eat before your surgery.” He looks down at the cup before letting his eyes widen in exaggerated panic. He removes the straw and tosses it out the window at a nearby trashcan before assuming an expression of deep remorse. “What a total _ dunce. _ I forgot that S-T-R-A-W-S were also a no-no. I’m _ so sorry. _”

“Don’t worry, it’s an honest mistake. I only mentioned it a few hundred times in the McDonald’s drive-through you insisted on torturing me with.” Wilson retorts as he checks his watch, before twisting to collect his jacket and satchel from the back seat. 

House moves to undo his seatbelt but Wilson stops his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Getting out of the car? Unless I’m being held against my will, in which case, I know for a fact that I won’t make for a very lucrative ransom.” 

Wilson makes a swiping motion through the air before pointing a stern finger at House. “You are _ not _ coming down with me.”

House rolls his eyes sarcastically. “Whoops. If I knew you were going to use _ that _ tone of voice, I totally wouldn’t have bothered to bring my free will with me today.”

Wilson opens the door, letting cold air rush in. He gets out, turning around and bending over to meet House’s eyes through the open doorway. “I’m serious, House. I talked to the secretary ahead of time. There’s a mall nearby where you can wait.”

House plays offended. “Is that all I am to you? A chauffeur?” He sobs dramatically into his hands. 

Wilson laughs and House gives himself a mental high-five. “Fine. Thank you for the ride. Now leave.” He makes a shooing motion. 

House looks up at Wilson, knowing it was moronic to be so concerned over a wisdom teeth surgery and even more moronic to let it show on his face. 

Wilson smiles knowingly. “I’ll be okay. Now, really… _ leave.” _

House shrugs, dismissing his worries as he starts the car. “All right, then. I’m off… like your mom’s pants on Father’s Day.” 

Wilson’s face of disgust and retching noises leave House smiling idiotically long after he’d driven off. 

~~~

House munched on his pretzel contemplatively, re-adjusting himself in an attempt to make his seat on the floor slightly more comfortable. The mall was buzzing with early Christmas shoppers. Although House had found a little nook near the security guards’ office where he could breathe, it meant that he was slumped against a concrete wall, which wasn’t doing wonders for his leg. After hitting the gag gift store, there really wasn’t much else in the plaza to attract his attention. He grinned down at the bag tucked in between his legs, where a mug reading “The Tears of My Staff” poked out. He couldn’t wait to unveil that one in the office. 

He still had an hour to burn before Wilson came out of his surgery. People-watching-and-subsequent-mocking had been fun for a while, but all of the lovey-dovey couples making out near the fountain and the massive Christmas tree were starting to bug him. 

Love. House groaned to remember how up until a few weeks ago, he’d confused the concept of love with tolerance. He and Cuddy had amazing work banter, but House’s obsessive personality took something he enjoyed and ramped it up to eleven, turning what should have been a pleasant friendship into a relentless pursuit, in which he’d crossed so many lines that he was surprised he still had a job. And his best friend. 

Now that his mind was no longer clouded by love hormones, he realized what an absolute moron he’d been. Anyone with two eyes could see that Lucas and Cuddy were inseparable. And even though Wilson was back now, it hurt House to see how guarded Wilson had been at Giuseppe’s. Wilson probably hadn’t even realized, but House had had to go full talk-show host on him just to get him to offer up any conversation. It was still an on-going process.

House needed to re-evaluate what he wanted in a romantic partner, because clearly, letting Little House lead the charge wasn’t working for him. House had never really believed in casual dating, preferring to woo women in natural contexts. 

That wasn’t how things usually played out, though, was it? It hit him that every relationship he’d ever wanted landed right in his lap. Stacy shot him with a paintball, Cameron blackmailed him into a date, and Cuddy had heard the legends about him in university and decided to find out more. 

Plus, each one of them had wanted something he couldn’t offer. Stacy wanted Old House, Cameron wanted Fantasy House, and Cuddy wanted Lucas. House just wanted someone who could accept what he had to offer, however meager it was. Maybe he would have to start being more proactive in dating, despite how unappealing the idea seemed. 

But for now, he was more than fine being a bachelor. All he needed in life was a flatscreen TV, a beer, some mental stimulation, and a friend by his side. 

Checking his watch, he pulls himself up off the floor, stooping to grab his shopping bag. Wilson wouldn’t know if he spent the last thirty minutes in the waiting room, right?

~~~

House was finishing up his third personality quiz in the Cosmopolitan magazines left lying around the dentistry centre. He’d learned that he was going to marry Chris Hemsworth, that Avril Lavigne was going to play at their wedding, and that him and his BFF were _“so in sync! _" Said BFF was finally wheeled out from the office by a nurse, and House’s first thought was that he had never seen him looking so dopey, even after twelve shots of whiskey. 

Wilson’s cheeks were already swelling rapidly, and the gauze in his mouth was barely holding back the flow of blood and drool threatening to spill. His eyes had trouble focusing for a moment, but when he saw House, his mouth opened in a goofy, toothy smile and he tried standing to go meet him, but the nurse quickly stifled his move. 

House couldn’t stand the sight, so he walked over and addressed the nurse, who wouldn’t let them leave until she debriefed him on post-operative care, regardless of how much House snarked. The entire time, Chipmunk Wilson was tugging at his shirt and House finally snaps, “What?!’ after the nurse leaves. 

Wilson’s eyes are glistening. “You didn’t say hi.”

House stifles a laugh. “Hi. Happy?”

Wilson nods, way too smug and self-satisfied. “Happy.” House tells himself that it’s an evolutionary response to find big doe eyes and round faces cute. 

Wilson babbles as House wheels him out the door, half of it incomprehensible to House’s dismay, because the other half was comedy gold. 

“So then the nurse was like ‘you’re going to sleep’ but I said it wasn’t night-time yet! I have to watch my sleep schedule, y’know? But they were soooooo nice. So nice. Did I thank them? Oh my God, I think I forgot to thank them. We have to go back.”

House applies firm pressure on Wilson’s shoulders to stop him from getting up. “I already thanked them for you,” he lied. 

Wilson’s brow furrows slowly. “Oh. You did? That doesn’t sound like something you’d do.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” House maneuvered the wheelchair into the parking lot slowly and jerkily, both his leg and the slushy ice on the ground outside conspiring against him. 

Wilson nods solemnly in complete agreement. “Does that make me a bad best friend?” He looks up at House desperately, looking like his entire worldview was about to be shattered by the answer. 

House thinks about that for a moment. “I think it reflects a bit more on me than it does on you, to be fair.” 

That answer must have been too complex for Wilson to fathom in his current state, because he wrinkles his nose and whines petulantly. “That doesn’t make sense, House. You’re not making sense.”

House chuckles and remembers that Wilson likely won’t remember any of this the next day, so what the heck? “You’re the bestest of best friends, Wilson. Now watch your head.” House opens the passenger seat of the car, guiding Wilson in. It was a good thing House had more than enough experience wrangling a drunk Wilson. 

Settled and comfortable in the heated car, Wilson finally processes what House said and starts to cheer, inordinately pleased, but a string of blood drops out of his mouth along with the gauze and House decides that’s enough talking. 

He gets the keys out and belts Wilson in, before turning on the radio. It starts blasting YMCA by the Village People, and Wilson gasps happily. House quickly changes the channel to classical before Wilson dies of blood loss from singing along and starts the car. 

“Why’d you turn off the Village People? I like the Village People. They’re super gay and_ I’m... _somewhat gay, but still.” he mumbles. 

House shushes him and passes him a new piece of gauze before tilting his head in thought. He’d never actually heard Wilson refer to himself as gay. His sexuality was an unspoken fact between them; House couldn’t actually remember how or when he’d clued in on it, that’s how long ago it was. That wasn’t right, he registers. They were best friends. Wilson should be comfortable enough to talk about this part of his identity. What if he wanted to come out to the hospital someday? House didn’t want to find out after the fact.

He snaps out of his reverie and looks to the right, only to see that Wilson had reclined his seat fully so that he’s staring up at the roof with wild eyes. He’s giggling, for some reason known only to himself. 

“Cut that out.” 

The seatbelt is apparently restricting in that position, which House finds out when Wilson unbelts himself so he can stretch out. House hits a series of speed bumps, and Wilson goes flopping around like a Magikarp, yelping all the way. 

House groans, keeping one eye on the road while he tries to wrestle Wilson and his seat back into normalcy.

Wilson seamlessly moves on to find a new way to annoy House: opening the glovebox. It was Wilson’s car, so of course the compartment was filled with ten types of wipes and an emergency kit. While rational, normal Wilson would have found the contents scintillating, dopey Wilson murmured in disappointment. 

“What did you expect to find, an Xbox?” House snorts. 

Wilson just shakes his head and shoves his head further into the compartment until he victoriously emerges with his prize, grinning proudly. House looks over curiously only to find that Wilson had managed to get his hands on a Swiss Army knife. 

House’s eyes go all circular and he pulls the car over. “Give me that, Wilson.”

Wilson pulls it closer to his chest, holding it protectively. “No. Mine.” 

House takes a deep breath and forces himself to project a smile. “I know it’s yours, but it’s my turn with it, and then you’ll get it back forever and ever.”

Wilson still looks skeptical so House goes in for the kill. “And sharing is caring. You care about me, right?”

Wilson looks between House and the knife and House again. He slowly passes it to House, looking like he’s parting with half of his soul. “Take care of it, okay? I’m only lending it to you.” 

House sighs with relief as he grips the knife. Who would have thought that dopey Wilson would be such a harm to himself? 

They drive in silence for a bit, the exhaustion seeming to finally hit Wilson and replacing his manic state. He leans his forehead against the window, crossing his arms, watching the world go by. 

House signalled the turn towards his apartment. “We’re going to my place,” he says firmly, leaving no room for disagreement. “I’ve got all the vanilla pudding you’ll ever need.”

To House’s surprise, Wilson doesn’t argue the point. Instead, he sighs heavily, fascinated by his breath’s ability to fog up a window. “I think that’s a good idea.” 

House recognizes the opportunity he’s being given to discern the truth. “So… guess the honeymoon period is over for that devil’s shithole you call an apartment?” 

Wilson snickers softly at the description. “Mmm… I guess so. I’m just so _ tense, _ all the time. I hear a bang and I think it could be a gunshot and maybe I duck my head a little bit further down the couch. I hear a woman scream in the middle of the night and I spend half an hour wondering if I should call the police, if I’d see her on the news in the morning. And… and…”

House swallows, afraid of what he’s about to say. “Go on.” 

Wilson looks sheepish. “The local grocery store doesn’t sell kale. Or chia seeds. Or quality prosciutto. Or…” 

House coughs out a laugh, knowing Wilson could keep going on forever, that the oncologist’s grocery list was probably only half completed every visit. 

Wilson fumes. “It’s not funny!”

House humours him, speaking soothingly. “I know, I know. You shouldn’t have to drive uptown just to find some decent Brie.”

Wilson seems vindicated by the acknowledgement of his woes, and he smiles at House, patting him approvingly on the shoulder before letting his hand drop limply beside him. He stares out through the window, pensive. “Y’know, the last time I was at your place, we were in a_ relationship. _Isn’t that crazy?”

Another opportunity for the truth handed to him on a silver platter. For a moment, House feels guilty for digging, but in a world where everybody lies, you don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth. Especially when that mouth is bleeding profusely. 

“Why _ did _ you want to date me anyways?” House asks, honestly bewildered. Wilson had seen the ugliest parts of him, the parts he’d never show to a potential lover: the crumpled form shouting on a wet bathroom floor, the deadbeat using his finger to scoop leftover dip out of a plate balanced on his belly after getting fired from his fourth job, the guy who’d kiss his best friend in an idiotic plan to get a date. 

Wilson laughs lightly, answer prepared with complete certainty. “I’d never cheat on you.” 

“I wasn’t asking for a _ pitch.” _House shoots, indignant. 

“No, that’s why.”

House glances to the side questioningly. 

“You’d be enough.”

Wilson shrugs and leaves it at that, busy angling his head to monitor his swelling in the car mirror. 

They spend the rest of the drive in silence, each doing their own little thing. Wilson dozed off. House tried to pretend like those three words hadn’t just irreversibly changed his outlook on his worth in life and completely fit the mental profile he’d been forming in his head of a potential _ romantic partner. _

All in all, a successful Friday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dopey Wilson is so hard to write, but also gave me life at the same time. I based all of my info/research on youtubers posting wisdom teeth removal videos XD  
The next chapter will have a whole lot of progress made so look forward to that :)


	10. Chapter 10

Wilson woke up on his side feeling a vague pain in his jaw. To be fair, it could have been far worse; the pain was barely noticeable through the strong painkillers he’d taken or the ice pack shoved in between his cheek and the six pillows he’d piled on top of one another to keep his head elevated. His mouth had stopped bleeding and a quick look at the time confirmed he’d been asleep for over twelve hours. The room was dark, but the bed he’d woken up in was unmistakable; the scent of cologne and sweat emanating from the sheets was distinctly House’s. 

Wilson scanned his mind but he couldn’t remember much of the events after his operation. As soon as House had unlocked the door, he’d shuffled in on exhausted autopilot, moving from room to room to collect pillows and blankets mindlessly. How he got them on the bed and himself under them was a mystery. 

He’s dazed and foggy but from a distance, he hears the sound of pencil scratching against paper and he sighs in relief, burrowing back under the heavy blankets. No matter how brave a man was, being alone in a darkened apartment always played with your mind, especially when he was weakened after his surgery. Irrational or not, House’s presence was reassuring. 

Still tired, Wilson lies there in a cloud of fluffy confusion for a few minutes. His mind was like a stone skipping across a warm pond, skimming idly from topic to topic until one topic emerges piercingly: his growing hunger. He groans and throws a hand across his forehead, stalling as long as possible before sitting up. He was almost certain House wouldn’t be doing room service. 

Wilson slowly makes his way through the hall to the dimmed living room, where he graciously ignores the pair of dirty boxers House had tossed to cover up the blood-stained patch of carpet from their last fight. House himself barely looks up from his spot sitting at the couch, files and papers swept across the surface of the coffee table. He nods at a bottle of pills, presumably painkillers, on the kitchen counter while fiddling with a metal device. “Picked up your prescription while you were out.” 

Wilson heads over to his main goal, the fridge. “Thanks,” he offers distractedly. He takes a glance at the prescription, ensuring none are missing before popping a pill. Dry. He opens the fridge door, searching for something smooth to wash it down. 

Wilson raises an eyebrow, impressed at all the soft-food options. Greek yogurt, applesauce, avocados, fresh salmon fillets. How long did House think he’d be staying? 

He grabs some pudding for the time being, plopping down on the couch beside House and resting his head on the back of the couch, eyes closed to fight off temporary dizziness. “What are you working on?” he murmurs. 

Wilson finds it hilarious and slightly depressing that he can tell House is shrugging simply by the sound of his bones cracking. They were both getting old. 

House’s voice is breathy and quiet in reply. “Got a case. Have to go in soon because my team is useless.” 

Wilson smiles faintly, humming in agreement. The painkillers were kicking in and their entire conversation was saturated with early-morning calm. He blindly reaches for his pudding, eyes still closed, when he suddenly feels House’s calloused hand clasp around his wrist. 

Wilson blearily lifts an eyelid, only to see that House was closing what felt like a handcuff around his left wrist. It clicked into place before Wilson could argue and House laughs gleefully. 

Fully alert now, Wilson tilts his head, nose flared in confusion. “What- was that your pudding I was about to eat or something? Because I think this might be a bit of an overreaction.”

Glossing over Wilson’s concerns, House whips out his phone, taps it a few times, and suddenly a screen he hadn’t noticed lit up on the cuff. It read 75 in a sharp, red font. Wilson raised the cuff-screen-thingamajigger into the air between him and House, blinking. “I would have preferred a head’s up that we’d entered a dystopian society where we were tagged, thanks.” 

The number changed from 75 to 78 and House tutted disapprovingly. “It’s a heart rate monitor, you moron. I took the liberty of modifying it so you can’t remove it. All your readings turn up on this nifty little app I downloaded. You can address your thank you note to the technological revolution.” 

Wilson gaped at House like he was insane, which was an increasingly probable conclusion to draw. “And _ why _exactly are you monitoring my heart rate?” 

“Well, I’m going off to work and you’re staying here, so I need insurance that you’re not going to throw a rave while I’m gone or anything. Any time your heart rate rises above 125, I get a notification.” 

Um, no. Wilson’s eyes narrow and he glares at House, making an aggressive grabby motion with his hand. “Key. Now.” 

House’s phone dings and he waves it tauntingly at Wilson. “It works! Silicon Valley, here I come.” He starts to grab his coat and keys to make a quick escape. 

House was so stubborn, he’d never hand over the key. Wilson had to change tactics. “Yes, well, setting aside the fact that I’ve been _ enslaved _ for a moment, I’m not even planning on staying here. I do have an apartment to return to, you know? One that isn’t a complete dump.” 

House tosses Wilson a look he can’t read, his hand on the doorknob. “You’re just going to have to cope with your raging homesickness because busses aren’t running today. Overnight snowstorm.” 

Wilson peeks out the window, surprised to see a good foot of snow piled on the sidewalk and more streaming down to join the party. No way out. Wilson sighs, secretly relieved. He’d only put up a fight to stop House from getting suspicious of his fraught relationship with his new place. “Fine. One day. And if this thing starts shocking me, I’m out.” 

House quirks his mouth into an odd grin, cinching up his coat. “Nah, the shock feature didn’t make it past the first prototype. Worried it would chase off investors.”

Wilson rolls his eyes and mumbles his usual Winter “Drive safe”. He remains scowling half-heartedly to maintain appearances until House is out the door, waiting until the lock is turned to stretch delightedly out on the couch. A relaxing day was exactly what he needed. He turns on the TV to find a Mythbusters marathon playing on Discovery channel, diving into the pudding cup eagerly as he settles in. One last, minor thought hits him before he resigns himself to a hedonistic day: what had House been writing before he entered the room? 

~~~

House unfolded the list he’d been making this morning and read it over. There was an article in the Cosmopolitan magazine he’d read in the waiting room at the dentist’s office that had simultaneously made him gag and inspired the paper in his hands. 

** _Find Clarity in Love!_ **

_ We at Cosmopolitan sat down with renowned sex psychologist and relationship counsellor Kristi Laurent to get all the deets on her newest book “Love it and List it!” Between sips of her mimosa (see page 9 for Five Mimosa Recipes To Fire Up Your Next Girl’s Night), Kristi told us about her ground-breaking, award-winning strategy: writing down all the qualities you’re looking for in your dream guy (or girl)! “Most people go on and on about their ‘types’, but show them a potential partner and they’re clueless about where to begin!” She recommends making an “Evaluate your Mate” list with four or five must-have points to narrow down your options. The Hunger Games, Twilight, and Gilmore Girls never would have had so much love-triangle drama if Kristi was there (not that we don’t live for that juicy entertainment!). _

While the article itself made him shiver, House figured he had nothing to lose by giving it a shot. While he wasn’t actively searching for his forever fuck-buddy, it wouldn’t hurt to have a point of reference, right? And so what if a middle-aged man was getting love advice from a teen magazine? 

Okay, it was lame. But whatever. The deed was done. 

He crumples the lined paper and shoves it into his coat pocket, where he can pretend it never happened and preserve his dignity. He checks his phone to see if any of the fellows had called with test results yet. Nothing. Bored, he opens the heart rate tracker app and snorts. 46 beats per minute. Either Wilson was suffering from bradycardia or he’d fallen asleep. The lady doth protest too much, he thinks, as he smiles fondly down at the screen. 

~~~

One month after Wilson’s wisdom tooth surgery, House rediscovers the list on a whim. He sits in his living room, his mind racing. He casts his mind back, running through the events of the last few weeks. It couldn’t be...

**#1: Sense of Humour: **House is playing online poker at his desk when Wilson enters, cheeks flushed from exertion. Every couple of years, Wilson would get roped into entering a charity marathon by a group of parents with sick kids, and this was one of those years. 

He’d been running the track every morning with the dads, training like he was in a knockoff Rocky movie. Some days, they’d even grab brunch after from some “artisan” brunch spot that sold $20 salads and considered Himalayan pink salt the only appropriate form of sodium. House usually stalked anyone who spent time with Wilson, but he’d hold off just this once. He considered his silence on the matter a long-term investment. If Wilson lengthened his lifespan with healthy food and regular exercise, House would actually be gaining an overall net profit of Wilson Time. 

Wilson ran his hand through his sweaty hair, his legs wobbly. “I’m not cut out for this,” he groans, planting himself in the chair. 

House hides a smirk. “Your tennis days behind you?” 

Wilson nods emphatically. “It doesn’t help that half the hospital has pledged me to finish under three hours.” At this point, it was actually probably more than half. The nurses had tirelessly taken up Wilson’s cause with great exaggeration of his physical abilities, to House’s never-ending amusement. House himself had placed a very public bet in the cafeteria, loudly proclaiming that he was certain Wilson would run it in two hours. It was his job to add some fuel to the fire. Cuddy had even waltzed over to put some money on the table, sharing a conspiratorial look with him for the first time since he'd told her the truth. 

“If you’ve come knocking on my door to sell me Girl Scout cookies in exchange for a donation, you’ve got the wrong person.” House met Wilson’s eyes challengingly. They both knew Wilson wouldn’t mention the $5000 “anonymous” donation to the pledge drive he’d received around Hanukkah. 

Just like House expected, Wilson doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he leans forward, raising an eyebrow persuasively. “Guess what? I’m a hundred bucks away from beating Garcia’s all-time fundraising record.” 

Garcia was a condescending prick from Penn Presbyterian who’d come over to “congratulate” Wilson at the finish line for last the Run for Hope, before shamelessly bragging about how much more money he’d raised. Wilson hadn’t said anything (_“Please _ don’t throw the trail marker at him, House, his money’s going to a good cause”) but half the reason House had donated 5000 bucks already had been to wipe that smug smirk off Garcia’s face. He’d give Wilson the hundred and they both knew it. 

House couldn’t very well say that, though, and Wilson, the sneaky bastard, knew it. Fine. House could play it cool. He pulls a crisp hundred out of his wallet, placing it on the table between them. “This is yours…”

Wilson tilts his head.

“...if you manage to make me laugh in 120 seconds.” 

Wilson gets that competitive look in his eyes. “You’re on.” 

House grabs the mug off his desk and fills his mouth with water just to raise the stakes before setting a timer on his phone and clicking start. Wilson assumes a thinker pose while looking off into the distance to form a game plan, until he smiles mischievously and runs out of the office. A security guard passing by tosses them a strange look before shaking his head and walking away. 

The time was ticking. House spun a pencil in his hand, feeling victory near with every passing second. There are only fifteen seconds left on the clock when he hears a tap on the balcony door behind him. 

House turns his office chair around only to see… nothing. He furrows his brow in confusion until, at the edge of his vision, Wilson waddles into frame with a sleeping bag over his head, almost tripping over the divider between their balconies. 

House almost chokes, spitting his water out all over the glass. He quickly grabs the mug and replaces the water in his mouth before Wilson removes the sleeping bag. The timer goes off and Wilson steps through the door, triumphant. 

House points at his mouth, still filled with water and shrugs like “I win.”

Wilson is unconvinced. “And the massive puddle on the floor?”

House gulps down the liquid in his mouth, waving his hand dismissively at the soaked carpet. “Uhhhh… my water broke?”

Wilson puts his hand on his hips and House reluctantly hands over the bill. “This isn’t fair. Inside jokes don’t count,” he mutters rebelliously. “Besides, why do you even have a sleeping bag in your office?”

Wilson shrugs, pocketing the hundred. “Three divorces?” 

“Do you also keep a divorce lawyer hidden in your closet for convenience? Or are you saving the closet space for yourself?”

Wilson barks out a laugh, surprised. He opens his mouth to retort but is interrupted when his pager goes off. Making a face at House, he rushes out, yelling out one last thank you at House for the hundo. 

House grins into his hand. He’d almost completely forgotten that camping weekend. When the bear ravaged their bags, it didn’t just cut off their food supply; all of the sweaters Wilson had brought were torn to shreds and caked with mud. House had tossed him one of his own hoodies to cut off the whining, but the fall chill had been too biting for a single layer to suffice. Wilson grumpily disappeared into the brush to take a piss and House thought, _ that was it. It was fun having a friend while it lasted. _

At least, until Wilson returned excitedly, apparently having had a eureka moment. He was wearing a sleeping bag over his head for warmth. 

They must have walked like that for a mile, maybe even two. House guiding Wilson away from trees, Wilson sending the black parts of Oreo cookies out through the hole between his knees for House to finish off. It was a bizarre trust exercise, one House may have failed when he let go of Wilson for a moment to check his map and he heard a snapping branch. Turning around, he got a prime-time view of Wilson rolling like a burrito off a small cliff and down a hill, hollering all the way. House couldn’t remember laughing that much, _ ever. _

House catches his reflection in the darkened monitor of his computer, still grinning. He had half a mind to send Wilson a bill for his hypothetical botox treatment, because he wouldn’t have these stupidly wrinkled smile lines if it wasn’t for him. _ Huh. _ It’s a surreal and slightly terrifying realization, to think how one man could be responsible for most of the joy he’d experienced in the last two decades. House wondered how many of the wrinkles on Wilson’s face he’d caused and the thought is sobering. 

As soon as Spring came around, he’d make sure to suggest another camping weekend to Wilson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of House's list items were supposed to be one chapter but I got carried away....  
Lmao my mind went to some weird-ass places while writing this chapter I stg, at one point I was going to write the entire chapter from the List's perspective but that draft'll never see the light XD  
I'm also slightly concerned by my own ability to imitate Cosmopolitan articles so well, like is this something i'm supposed to be proud of? Probably not lol  
Idk I just figured there was no way Wilson got away without running at least one cancer marathon and like we all know there'd be a huge betting pool on how quickly he'd finish. No pressure, Jimmy.  
Anyways, hope you enjoyed this chapter! :))))) It's crazy, I have a dentist's appointment in a week or two because of jaw pain and imagine how coincidental it would be if I needed to get my wisdom teeth removed lollll I'm a psychic fanfic writer up in here


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of House's list!

**#2: Smokin’ bod for my golden rod: **

House, still feeling _ some _ culpability for his past plans to usurp Lucas, had been picking his fights with Cuddy, only bothering her with arguments for unethical treatment plans when a patient’s life was on the line. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to, but it turned out to be a surprisingly utilitarian solution. House had learned that pretending to follow the rules was easier than explicitly rejecting them and less of a betrayal to his principles than, y’know, _ actually listening to people. _Now, though, his diplomatic threshold had been reached. It was time to take a stand. 

“Cuddy, do you want to explain to me why there’s a piece of paper in my office saying that the board is considering a proposal to ban all junk food from the hospital?” 

Cuddy, who had been smiling privately down at her phone with a flushed face, looks up at the man that just rushed into her office. “House. What a surprise. Listen, you’ve seen the news, heard the movement. Ever since that report came out about trans fats and sugars in hospital cafeterias, the donors have been on my ass to eliminate all unhealthy options from the menu. And I can’t lie, they have a point.” 

House waves his cane at her like an angry revolutionary. “This isn’t about principles. You’ve sold out to the hippie hypocrites in Cardiology, haven’t you?”

Cuddy finally puts down her phone, surreptitiously stuffing it under her pile of files. House tried not to imagine what she’d been looking at. He didn’t need the words _ Lucas _ and _ nudes _ anywhere near each other in his mind. She leans forward, flush now gone. 

“House, obesity is an epidemic. We treat people in Cardiology for heart disease, tell them to eat well and exercise, and then we turn around and serve them burgers and fries!” 

House rolls his eyes. “We treat illnesses, not idiocy. We have healthy options, it’s not our fault if they don’t take them.” He knew a lot more than he ever wanted to about PPTH’s healthy options. Wilson’s marathon-training meant he’d been eating whole-wheat couscous and artichokes for the last few weeks, effectively cutting off House’s food supply. 

Cuddy sighs. “House, I’m not disagreeing with you. I’m just trying to point out that this issue is a lot more complex than you’re making it sound. Trust me, I don’t exactly want to be the one telling the entire staff that they can’t have their donut after a 18-hour-shift. Even _ Cardiology _ isn’t entirely on board, and they submitted the proposal.” 

House scoffs. “It’s not complicated. Slap a label on heart-healthy foods, post some calorie counts, source better ingredients, toss in a couple new recipes and a well-designed campaign. I get to keep my french fries, the health activists move on to a new hospital to bug. It’s a win-win.” 

Cuddy tilts her head. “That’s… actually not a bad compromise. Wow, House-”

House’s inner allergy to authority starts itching and he brushes off the point. “Yeah, yeah.” He decides to beat a quick retreat before Cuddy asked him to head an initiative or something. “Gotta go. The vending machines are calling me.” 

On his way out, he congratulates himself on managing to get through another conversation with Cuddy without pointing out how well her pencil skirt shaped her curves when he’s greeted by two shapely globes leaning against the lobby counter. He admires them for a moment, before lifting his eyes to identify the owner of those unfamiliar peaches. 

It was... Wilson?

But it wasn’t any Wilson he knew. 

The oncologist had his hair parted so that little tendrils swooped to frame his eyes, which were adorned by tortoise-shell glasses that made Wilson’s brown eyes look… evolutionarily favourable. He wore a gray cable-knit sweater over a mint-green collared shirt, rolled up to reveal his strong forearms. For once, his dress pants didn’t swamp him, tailored perfectly to end right above his ankles and show off the results of his marathon-training and couscous-eating, results that House’s eyes couldn’t help but return to. 

House cleared his throat, irrationally annoyed that Wilson had abandoned his usual Anal-Retentive Dad persona. Wilson turned, his face lighting up. “There you are. I wanted to ask you about a patient of mine, 23-year-old presenting with-” 

House stopped him there. “What are you wearing? Take those glasses off!” 

Wilson looked down at himself before laughing. “Oh, this? The teens in the 12A Leukemia Ward are obsessed with some life makeover show and begged me to give them a shot. I think they did an okay job, actually, but it looks like I’ve created a monster. They’re going after every single nurse in Oncology now.” 

House’s throat is dry. “If you consider ‘okay’ ripping off a Tommy Hilfiger catalogue, then yeah. Where’d they even get these clothes?” 

“Lost-and-found.” He lifts his file. “Anyways, back to-”

House is pushing this and he doesn’t know why. “Unless you have a twin brother with cancer you didn’t tell me about - which is entirely possible, given your track record - there’s no way the lost-and-found clothes fit that well.” He tries to gesture vaguely at Wilson’s ensemble, but his hand has other plans and points right at Wilson’s rear end. 

Wilson doesn’t seem to notice, too busy nudging his glasses up his nose sheepishly. “Alright, I may have given them my credit card… and measurements. But they were so excited, House, you should have seen them.”

House thinks that maybe he will. He’d heard about the teens in 12A, who’d bonded quickly over their shared interest in trouble-making. House would usually appreciate the effort, but now, the little punks were causing trouble in House’s brain. Line. Crossed. 

Wilson’s voice pulls him out of his little vengeance monologue. “Ground control to Major Tom? House, the case?”

The case turns out to be boring. House accepts it anyways. He needed the distraction. 

**#3: Josh with my peeps: **

House had finally called off the prank war with the leukemia teens (having to wash red hair dye out of his head had been the last straw). Besides, he realizes that he himself didn’t even understand why he’d been so annoyed. The explanation he’d eventually went with in his head was that if Wilson got hot, House would look ugly in comparison. He’d never find himself a ten if women were falling all over his best friend. 

Proud of his introspective analytical skills, he graces the conference room with his presence. Even if they had no case, he could still trounce them all at Pictionary.

Besides, Chase, Cameron, and Foreman looked so funny when they were confused at the collection of squiggles, arrows, and circles on the whiteboard. 

Cameron squints. “Is that… nope, I’ve got nothing.”

Wilson takes that moment to pop in. He’s whistling, has a pep in his step, and is carrying a distinctive brown bag that had little oil stains in the bottom. House widens his eyes and sticks his tongue out while panting like a dog waiting to be fed. 

Wilson snickers at House’s little woofs before tossing the bag on the conference room table. “Chocolate babkas. Had them half-made before I realized I was eating healthy.” He pouts until the drawing on the whiteboard catches his attention. Wilson considers it, brow wrinkling. “House, I know it’s football season but why are you teaching your fellows the split gun counter?” 

House smiles smugly at the fellows, nodding at Wilson. “He brought me food _ and _ knows football plays. Take notes.” 

Wilson turns to the fellows as well. “Yes, take notes... on my work productivity. No case?” 

House leans over and snatches the bag away from Chase’s hungry fingers. “You? Work productivity? Nah, you’re too busy becoming the stereotype of a Jewish grandma.” He pulls out a babka bun, ripping off a bite. His eyes nearly roll back in his head when the tender, chocolate-y brioche dough hits his tongue. _ Damn. _

Wilson smirks. “I don’t see you complaining. I made enough for everyone, so House… fork it over. Like Mr. Monopoly once said: ‘Share the Wealth’.” 

Chase, Cameron, and Foreman stare excitedly at the bag in his hands, but he wasn’t about to give up these concentrated balls of delight without a fight. “No,” he grumbles. “All Monopoly with you ever taught me was to buy up everything fast and have no morals. Lesson learned. In a way, _ you’re _ the reason I’m such an asshole.”

Wilson raises an eyebrow to impressive levels, his hand still out for the bag. Once he realizes House is actually serious about monopolizing the babkas, his face takes on a calculating air.

Suddenly, Wilson lunges for the bag but House is already anticipating the move. He takes advantage of his height and lifts it above his head, out of Wilson’s reach. Wilson, thinking fast, grabs House’s cane and tries using the rounded edge to grab the bag out of House’s hand. House, thinking faster, ducks out of the way. The fellows watch with amusement. 

Wilson finally gives up chasing House around the conference room, out of breath. He looks at House judgmentally for a few seconds, before turning to Foreman, a mischievous look in his eyes. “Foreman, as the resident neurologist, I have to ask. At what age does the decision-making part of your brain fully develop to recognize the consequences of its actions?”

Foreman seems confused at the abrupt shift in topic and slightly disappointed that Wilson isn’t fighting more for their babkas. “Longitudinal neuroimaging studies show that the prefrontal cortex isn’t fully developed until age 25, maybe even later. Why?” 

Wilson pretends to consider that deeply, assuming a thinker pose. He turns to House, who is still perched on the desk protectively holding the brown bag. “House…”

“Yes, Wilson?”

“Didn’t I meet you at 25?” the oncologist asks, eyes widened in faux-innocence. 

Foreman snorts, Cameron covers her mouth to hide a smile, and Chase hums. 

“That explains a lot about why you’re friends, doesn’t it?” Chase asks, eyes full of mirth. 

House narrows his eyes. “Ha. Ha. Go be productive somewhere else,” he says to Wilson, with no real anger. It was a good bit. 

Wilson, still overly cheery, just sticks his tongue out briefly before walking out with a wave over his shoulder and an odd wink at the fellows. “Enjoy!”

House plans to do just that, ignoring the snickering of his fellows and opening the brown bag. As long as he had these bites of heaven and they didn’t, he was winning. He whines with distress when the contents of the bag are revealed. 

“Raisins? I hate raisins. He _ knows _ I hate raisins.” 

Cameron smiles widely. “Would you look at that? I happen to LOVE raisins.” Chase and Foreman nod in agreement, unable to keep their cheeky smiles off their faces. 

House throws the bag at them, resigned. He’s about to yell at them for fun when his text alert goes off. It’s Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, the part when Freddie Mercury yells “Mamaaaaa! I just killed a man”. House frowns and checks his phone.

Blythe:_ hey hon! Make sure to tell Wilson thanks again for the babka recipe! The ladies at the book club were very pleased :))))))) _

Blythe:_ ...Glad you two made it up, by the way. Betcha it was the ginger nutmeg cookies ;). Hold onto him. A good friend is hard to find! <3 _

House groans at the mom-ism, turning off his phone and heading into his inner office. Somehow, Wilson had managed to worm his way into every aspect of House’s life, and that wasn’t an easy feat. Their lives were incorporated together in a screwed-up codependency, so much so that House sometimes wondered if there would ever be space for someone else in his life. Or… if he ever wanted there to be. 

**#4: Know shit from Shinola: **

It’s Happy Hour at the Sawmill and the bar is bustling with patrons who’d braved the cold in a search for cheap beer and a one-night stand. House and Wilson have a booth in the back to themselves, and they’d ordered the XXX Wing Bucket to share.

Their fingers stained in spicy sauce, they debate everything from animal testing in pharmaceutical studies, drug use in sports, and psychology’s replication crisis in between pants for “milk”. It was the verbal Olympics, a match between minds that even managed to satisfy House’s itch for a case, albeit temporarily. Slowly, despite the overwhelming fire in his mouth and the heated debate, the tension seeped out of his shoulders and his foot stopped its restless tapping. From the secretive smile on Wilson’s face, lips swollen and reddened by those sadistic wings, that had been his intention from the start.

Too smart for his own good, House thought admiringly. Even after downing half a gallon of milk, he still felt way too hot. 

~~~

Back in the present, House considered his list. He’d almost forgotten he’d written it, but it was a testament to how bad Cosmopolitan’s technique was that, if the list was to be trusted, his ideal partner would be _ Wilson. _Sure, it made sense on a level that the qualities House would look for in a long-term romantic relationship would be similar to those in his longest-ever platonic relationship. But House was a big-picture kind of guy. A few qualities listed on a page didn’t make the person, how they all came together into a human being did. 

House wasn’t _ in love _ with Wilson. He was sure of it. 

So why did he feel the need to add, in harsh red Sharpie at the bottom of the page, one last qualification? 

Who knows? But there it was, loudly emblazoned across the page, overwhelming everything else:

  
**#5: Must be a ** ** _WOMAN_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Smoking bod for my golden rod" might be the weirdest line I've ever written in my life lmao I seem to turn into a knock-off Dr. Seuss every time I write fanfiction XD  
Comment down below with your fave list item! I'm partial to the chocolate babkas myself, but let's be honest, I'm just eating vicariously through my characters at this point lol. #DietingLife :((((


	12. Chapter 12

“We come to you live with breaking news! The bleachers at the annual Western Junior High basketball championship collapsed, sending the crowd plummeting down below! At least 114 injuries have been reported to us thus far, with 3 in critical condition. Those injured have been taken to Princeton Plainsboro and Princeton General for treatment.”

Wilson hunches his head over the table away from the cafeteria TV and the all-business tone of the reporter to grimace at House. “You’d think they’d at least have the decency to change the channel.” 

The cafeteria was filled with tired doctors and nurses from all specialties who’d united to keep the death count at zero, currently sprawled on tables with heads pillowed against bunched-up lab coats and slumped on concrete floors near outlets to charge their phones and call their families. The emergency room had been chaos, one of those days when all titles and posturing had fallen away and the hospital hierarchy had collapsed into grateful nods at the passing of water bottles or exhausted cheers as a new box of sterile gauze was found in the hospital basement by Lou the janitor. They had come together with a common purpose, to save lives. 

At least, that’s how Wilson would put it. House had been a part of enough disaster response teams to know that the next day, they’d all reset back to their status quo: petty infighting, passive aggressive memos, and most importantly, hating House. 

House popped two Vicodin and washed it down a large gulp of coffee, massaging his thigh under the table. The table wobbled with the movement of his hand and Wilson extended his foot to steady the table leg. The fabric of their pants brushed together, tickling the hair on House’s shin. House blamed the lack of sleep for convincing him it was a good idea to lean his knee against Wilson’s, but he was warm and _ there. _

The one person who, against House’s best wishes, would _ still _be there the next morning, and the morning after that. Whose factory default wasn’t a hatred of House. 

Cuddy was still out talking with the media, who’d probably be asking the same question rephrased twenty different ways until the next big news story appeared. Before she went out to talk to the crowd, she’d taken one look at House’s jittery hands and the dark smudges under Wilson’s eyes and given them the green light to go home and decompress.

House had to admit that they both needed the time off. He looked up at his friend, the oncologist’s eyes zoned out as he stared deep into the cup, mechanically blowing on the already-lukewarm liquid. House himself was dazed, eyes zeroing in on a single hair that escaped Wilson’s hair gel and was catching the light. Eventually, he forces himself to snap out of it. They’d both end up falling asleep on the table if he didn’t step in. 

He nudged Wilson’s leg with his own to get him to look up. He lifted an eyebrow, nodding his head at the door.

Wilson hummed in agreement. 

Neither of them got up. 

The cozy silence stretched on and House’s eyes almost drifted close. 

Finally, Wilson took the initiative and pushed his chair back, pulling his leg away. House groaned, passing a hand over his face before leveraging himself up as well. He stood back and watched as Wilson gathered the debris of empty sugar packets and coffee stirrers.

Wilson looked over his shoulder at House, tossing him his lanyard and keys. He smiles slightly when House fumbles it. “I’ll bring the car around, you lock up our offices?” 

House has a retort prepared but he strategizes. If he silently obeys, it’ll set off warning bells in Wilson’s mind. And a concerned Wilson is a Wilson who sleeps on his couch and makes him breakfast in the morning instead of going out on his lonesome to get mugged and whatever else happens to pretty boys who live on the corner of Cocaine Crescent and Broken Glass Boulevard. 

Damn it, he sounded like his mom. 

House heads off quietly, face down, exaggerating his limp for the showmanship of it all. When he feels Wilson’s worried eyes boring into his back, he smirks. There were pancakes in his future. 

The coffee and Vicodin cocktail finally kicks in as he approaches Wilson’s office, and he starts to feel slightly more human. Wilson’s car was blocked in this morning, so House had at least twenty minutes to do whatever snooping he wanted. 

There was only one thing he wanted to get to the bottom of. A patient had gifted Wilson a self-care kit for Christmas, fit with an essential-oil diffuser, golden face masks, and a _ pedicure set_. House had teased Wilson about the gift so much that Wilson had given it away - or so he claimed. However, House had noticed that Wilson’s face was suspiciously glowing all day, and House never turned down the opportunity for blackmail material. 

He started going through Wilson’s desk drawers, finding nothing but the requisite office supplies and papers. The shelves behind his door were covered in medical paraphernalia, but again - nothing interesting. Finally, House remembered the nook on the side of the cabinets behind Wilson’s desk. It was hidden out of sight, and Wilson often stuffed items in the cubby hole and forgot all about them. Once, he accidentally left a pear in there for a whole month, and the entire janitorial staff was convinced Wilson’s office was haunted because of the rotting smell that had emanated out into the hallway. 

House makes his way through the dimmed office, cursing when he stepped on a Lego some pediatric patient must have left on the floor. He balances on his good leg and jimmies the handle on the small storage space until it finally pops open. 

No self-care kit to mock. Damn. 

House is about to turn away, disappointed, when a small black gift bag catches his eye. Only two stores in Princeton used such discreet packaging; the sex store on the outskirts of town and Laiche’s Chocolatier. 

House leans the bag over to take a peek at the contents. Inside was a sleek grey box of chocolates with a navy blue ribbon holding it closed. 

House is confused. Firstly, Laiche’s was _ expensive_, way classier than the barely-a-step-above-supermarket chocolates Wilson would buy his wives when he was stuck in the dog house. Second, this box of chocolates was very obviously marketed towards men with its packaging and Wilson only ever bought chocolate for his lovers. 

The conclusion was clear: Wilson must have moved on, met a man to date. 

House should be eager, he knows. He should be celebrating, shouting from the rooftop that their friendship could now go back to normal without the confounding factor of romantic feelings. But nothing about the pit in House’s stomach was normal. 

Ever the masochist, House checks out the attached index card to see what custom flavours Wilson had chosen for… his boyfriend? Partner? Knowing Wilson, House might as well start picking out a wedding gift and that annoys him even more. 

Looking at the flavours definitely didn’t help, because now House was hungry on top of his <strike>jealousy</strike> irritation. Sea Salt, Mexican Spiced, Bourbon, Apple Pie Truffles… Wilson apparently had a type in men, because this was House’s dream chocolate box. In fact, he almost feels like eating it out of spite and then he stops and questions why he’s feeling spiteful and that’s not exactly a road he wants to go down so he reaches in the bag instead. There was nothing else, except for the receipt. Curious, he unfolds it. 

House winces when he sees the price on the receipt. Wilson wasn’t sparing any expenses on this guy, was he? 

His eyes wander around the receipt until he sees the date of purchase on the top.

August 23rd? 

It was mid-January now. These chocolates had been sitting in Wilson’s office for almost half a year. Plus, the date just didn’t line up in House’s mind for some reason. Now fully in investigation mode, he heads over to Wilson’s desk calendar, flips back to August and finds the date. 

“Talk with House”, written in Wilson’s signature scrawl. Underlined thrice. 

And then, two days later:

“Barbecue with Lisa and Lucas!”

Suddenly, it all added up in House’s mind. Wilson had bought these chocolates for House as soon as their fake relationship had started to degrade. A peace offering, of sorts. A gift to help spark some romance out of House’s indifference. 

House can’t help but imagine it. Wilson would sit him gently down on the couch under the guise of an old Western movie marathon and order in Thai food, ideally after a long hot bath, a Vicodin, a beer. He’d turn his entire body toward House and whip the chocolates out, nervously cracking a joke to lighten the situation before turning serious. A hand on his knee, of course, and deep, earnest brown eyes staring into his as Wilson stumbled through a speech about communication and give-and-take, talking about getting their relationship on track. A soft thumb stroking circles into his knee contrasting with the hard determination in Wilson’s face. 

House wants that. He wants someone to fight to stay in his life, no matter how much he pushed them away. 

House _ is _ a big-picture kind of guy, and that’s exactly why the answer was so obvious. It didn’t matter if Wilson was a man or a woman, not when every piece fit and formed the only epiphany he’d ever drawn with 100% certainty.

He loved Wilson. 

Collapsing into Wilson’s office chair in his dimmed office with the muffled sound of hospital activity outside, his realization washes over him slowly. The sensation was like a shrill alarm without a snooze button ringing out in his chest, forcing him to wake up from a delirious dream and face the glare of the day. No matter how much he screwed his eyes shut, the sun made its presence known. 

_ He loved Wilson. _

~~~

Wilson had finally tracked down the owner of the white SUV that blocked his path and eased his Volvo out of its spot. He intercepted House at the front door, honking a little to get his attention. The diagnostician climbed into the passenger seat quietly, seeming distracted and refusing to make eye contact. This, on top of his prior unusual willingness to follow orders, had Wilson doubly concerned. 

He unbuckled his seatbelt so he could face House. House ignored the noise, focusing on his hands tightened around his cane. Wilson reached out and gripped House’s shoulder and House’s head shot up, eyes wide in alarm. 

“House, is everything okay? I know-”

House stared at the hand on his shoulder, a range of unreadable emotions crossing over his face in the second before he slaps Wilson’s wrist away. “You don’t know anything, alright?” 

Wilson shrunk back, confused. He considered himself fluent in reading House, but this House was unpredictable, mercurial. 

He reaches out again, this time for House’s elbow, but the look House throws him is as deadly as his words that fly out of his mouth with a hint of something underneath - desperation? “Stop trying to touch me! _ Fuck_, Wilson, don’t you care about our friendship? You can’t just- not when I’m over here trying to-” 

Is that what this is about? Wilson can’t stop the hurt from leaching into his words, eyes bugging out. “I’m not- House, I’m not trying to _ hit on you_.”

House’s face grew taut, and he groaned in frustration. “That’s not- Whatever. Just start the car.” 

Wilson does, with an angry twist of his hand. He stares forward, pointedly not looking at House. He didn’t need House accusing him of coming onto him just because they made eye contact. 

Minutes later, House sighs and speaks. His voice sounds resigned. “Here’s a riddle for you.” 

Wilson expected an indirect apology, or a joke to lighten the tension. He didn’t expect a_ riddle. _

Wilson humours him anyways because there was a note of remorse in his posture. “What?”

“What’s the use of a diagnosis when the patient is already dead?” 

“Well, I guess, for the family it can be… useful to know. And you can write up the case for others to learn from in a-” 

House shakes his head, makes a harsh buzzer sound. “Wrong. The answer is nothing, Wilson, nothing. The diagnosis is useless.” 

Wilson furrows his brow, even more confused by the hopelessness in House’s voice. He’d had a long day, and this conversation was exhausting his last few brain cells. He’d figure this out tomorrow, he promises himself. 

They spend the rest of the car ride in silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is like a box of chocolates ;)  
Sorry this chapter was a few days late! I hopefully made up for it with progress! Angsty progress, but progress nonetheless!  
This story has gone on so much longer than I expected but I really enjoy writing it. I wonder if anyone's actually been here since my first chapter upload... I'd love to hear if this story went in the direction you expected or you're completely surprised lmao. Let's be real, I've been surprising myself with half these plot points anyways. Story outline? Who?  
Have a great week everyone and treat yourselves to a self-care kit!


	13. Chapter 13

It’s the next morning. Wilson announces his presence by leaning against the door of House’s office with his arms crossed. His eyebrows wrinkle questioningly. 

“You’re not homophobic. I know that.”

“Of course not,” House responds with a leer. “I would never deny myself lesbian porn.”

“Yes, bigots are really missing out.” Wilson rolls his eyes in sarcasm before re-adopting the challenging gaze. “So… why the sudden aversion to touch yesterday?”

House sighs. “Fine, you got me. I’m carrying a highly contagious, novel disease.” He sneezes loudly in Wilson’s direction, looking up like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Whoops.” 

Wilson’s eyes narrow, unimpressed. He can sense the undercurrent of agitation in House’s demeanor and he’s determined to sniff it out. 

House leans back against his seat in seeming resignation, shrugging his shoulders against the plush leather. “Listen. I know how it is with the chicks and…” he nods at Wilson “...dicks. One touch of the Gregory House package and they’re hooked. I couldn’t do that to you, lead you on like that.”

Bullshit. He’s deflecting, hard. But Wilson would call his bluff. “Well, if I knew you were just looking out for me…” He shrugs and pretends to leave.

Wilson feels a note of triumph as soon as he hears House’s suspicious tone ring out behind him. “Huh. Now I know why people do the lying thing. It makes conversations with you a lot easier.”

Wilson turns on his heels and plops down in the seat across from House. “Bluffing isn’t worth it with you. We both already know I’d never make it that easy.” 

House shrugs, not even upset. “You’re pathologically incapable of not being a pain in the ass. I knew what I signed up for.”

“Whereas you waited until I was invested in our friendship to reveal the true extent of your assholery.” 

“I prefer a gradual reveal. A little bit of mystery keeps things spicy.” 

“Uh huh. Speaking of mystery, want to explain to me what that whole diagnosis riddle was all about?”

House plays with Wilson’s phone on his desk. They’d both gotten into the habit of setting their devices face down on nearby surfaces during their conversations after a long string of interrupted dinners and bowling nights. Doctoring isn’t easy. 

House glances at Wilson. “Sure. If you want the answer to the riddle of my riddle, you just have to solve this other, totally better riddle.” 

“Hm?”

House waves Wilson’s phone in the air. “What do you get when you cross a douchebag fireman named Lance and an online dating app?”

Wilson’s world ground to a halt. “What? How do you-?”

House is giddy. “If the highly gratifying flush on your face means anything, then apparently the answer to my riddle is true love!”

Wilson doesn’t even realize he’s breathing quickly until House affects a face of mild concern. “Oh come on, don’t faint. I don’t want to have to call up Lance to deliver your wake-up kiss, Sleeping Beauty.”

Wilson regains his capacity for speech. “No one here is contacting Lance!”

House unlocks the phone with a tap. “I don’t know about that. Looks like you’ve been doing more than enough contacting.”

“One text! That’s it! That’s all I sent!”

“But what a text. So well structured. It has everything a sentence needs: a subject, an object, and… yup, that’s definitely a verb.”

Wilson decides to rip back control of the situation by repossessing his phone from House’s grasp. After a brief struggle, Wilson sits back and pockets his phone aggressively, trying to normalize his breathing. “Total breach of privacy aside, you’re deflecting.” 

“Deflect!” House trumpets. “Another verb. The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as veering off a straight course. I think you’re the only one deflecting here. Deflecting right into Lance’s pants.”

“Classic example of deflection at work. You _ really _ don’t want me to find out what this is, do you?” He squints at House, trying to assume his standard hands-on-hips pose while sitting. 

House eyes Wilson and his shoulders drop, mouth twitching downwards. ““I… lost a patient. Didn’t diagnose her until it was too late, too busy playing a game of medical incompetence with Cameron, Chase, and Foreman. You trying to comfort me was the opposite of what I felt I deserved. I just-” He thumps his cane, angry with himself. 

Wilson draws back, shocked. “Oh, damn, House, if I knew-”

House shakes his head. “Nah. You couldn’t have. But…” he inhales shakily, adopting a brave smile. “I’m okay. Really.”

Wilson nods urgently, a plan of action already forming. “Okay. Well, we’re going to do what we always do whenever one of us is feeling like shit.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

“Alright, well… we haven’t had tequila in a while.”

~~~

Wilson was a big, fat liar. 

There was no way he had managed to get through a decade of unrequited love with his best friend without self-imploding, shoving him up against a wall, or both. 

House had barely managed to last a week, a week that felt like a year. 

It’s the small things he wonders at, and he suddenly feels a great deal of empathy for any “In Love with my BFF” story-line in a soap. 

It’s when they’re both riding side by side on a crowded escalator to catch a midnight screening of the Blade Runner reboot in the mall movie theatre that a man all fast and furious to watch the 77th installation of the film franchise rushes past on the left, brandishing his elbows like weapons. It’s when Wilson is forced to shuffle over into House, turning into his chest to curve over his popcorn protectively and save both it and House from falling victim to the jerk’s flying limbs. It’s when he snakes an arm behind House to the moving railing to steady them both, sharing a glance with House that perfectly communicated _ What a Dick _ in Wilson’s blandly terrifying way. 

Wilson insists on getting to the theatre room early to wiggle his ass into ten different seats to test them for varying levels of comfort. House knows that the middle aisle, middle row is the oncologist’s ideal seat, but as soon as Wilson sees a large crowd drifting in, he proclaims that the aisle seats nearest to the exit had _ clearly _ won the Comfort Competition. So predictable in the way he didn’t want House to have to fight through a maze of legs to get to the washroom or to grab a drink refill. So unpredictable in the way he sent heart palpitations through House whenever he licked the salty butter off his lips, huge 3D glasses balancing slightly wonkily on his nose. 

House wants to go back in time and punch his past self for having kissed those lips, and not recognizing the golden opportunity in front of him. 

He tried so hard to remember those three weeks he’d fake-dated Wilson, but they’d been lost to time in a guilty haze. All that resurfaces are shamed pangs as he remembers how he’d stay out until 2am to avoid having to go home and sleep next to his best friend. There were nights he’d quietly sneak into his own apartment only to find that Wilson had fallen asleep on the couch waiting up for him. 

And other pangs, when he’d remember how Wilson would slide up to him with that look in his eyes, only to be rebuffed by House’s regurgitation of every bored housewife’s go-to excuses - bad breath, leg hurts, headache. He should not know how his friend looked like when he was trying to get lucky, but now he does. And now it’s etched in his brain. 

He sees it every time he closes his eyes. 

Great, now he can never blink in Wilson’s presence again. 

If he’d wanted to convince Cuddy he was prepared to commit to starting a family, it would have been easier to adopt a kid. Hell, it would have been easier to become pregnant himself. 

Loving Wilson wasn’t the hard part. Hiding that love from him for the rest of their lives was a different story. 

And it would have to be hidden. _ Of course _ it would. House would be kidding himself if he thought he could just, what? Confess, make out, live happily ever after?

The world didn’t operate like that. 

No, instead the world shoved hot burly men named Lance in Wilson’s direction, just to rub some more salt in the wound. He’d read the texts, saw Wilson’s hesitation first-hand, knew nothing would come out of that little dalliance, but still. 

It just sent House’s already confused mind into another spiral.

House had always expected that if Wilson ever did dip into the gay pool, permanently, it would be with some twenty-something pretty boy with armcandy aspirations. His name would be Elliott Donahue the Fourth or some shit, at least until his third date with Jimmy, where it would quickly turn into Mr. Wilson the Fourth. The proposal would be inevitable, as soon as Wilson found out about the debilitating illness, daddy issues, or both. Mr. Wilson the Fourth would slowly grow to resent House for his superior claim on Wilson’s time and get clingy, Wilson would feel trapped and spend more time with House, and the cycle would continue until one or the other beds the postman. 

Somehow, House has a feeling that Wilson was breaking the pattern with his new type in men. And breaking the pattern might mean breaking his ties, with House.

House couldn’t risk that. So he’d stay firmly in line and pull a page out of Wilson’s book. The hide-your-love-for-over-a-decade tactic was starting to look better by the second. 

Introspective spiral over, House poked at the bit of flab on his stomach. For now, him and Wilson were still best friends. His little bit of deception this morning had ensured that.

Hmph. What could he say? It was just too easy to manipulate Jimmy’s heartstrings. Sniffle a little bit and he was rolling over, showing his belly. It was endearing, in a pathetic way.

Besides, it was only fair. House figured it was about time to get revenge for the damage his own heartstrings had taken.

He smiled. That was nothing some tequila couldn’t cure.

~~~

Tequila was fun, until it wasn’t. 

Wilson groaned, his mind fuzzy as he curled inwards against House’s couch. He’d passed the giddy, manic stage hours ago. The evidence was in the cane leaning against the coffee table, resting after its brief stint as a stripper pole, the piece of toilet paper still clinging onto House’s hair from the round he had to spend mummified, and the empty bottles strewn across the room.

House knew how to play dirty in Drunk Jenga. Look at him. He almost looked sober, laughing like a loon over there. Like a Looney Tune. 

Wilson ran a hand over his face, protesting wildly as House moved to pour another shot. “I think we’ve had enough of that... knockoff nail polish remover, don’t you?”

House ignored Wilson, finishing the pour and knocking it back. He winces through the taste before glancing sideways at the oncologist. “I don’t want to know how you know what nail polish remover smells like.” 

Wilson hid his toes in the crack between the cushions. It was just standard pediatric care. “How can you drink any more of that Satanic piss?” 

House snorts. “Just catching up. Jeez, how did they ever let you into an operating room with those shaky hands?”

“Yeah, yeah. Most modern surgeries don’t include a crippled bastard screaming into your ear while you perform an incision.”

“Gotta miss the 1600’s. The field of medicine was all downhill from there.” 

“Your services would have been much in demand.” He rolls his head sideways towards House. “Let’s play something else.”

“Truth or dare?”

Wilson flares his nostrils. “Seriously? Is that before or after we braid each others’ hair and talk about how cute Josh in eighth grade is?” 

“Oh, come on. Truth or dare is wasted on middle-schoolers. They don’t know how to ask the real questions.” 

“That’s my signal to never pick truth, thank you very much.” 

House cackles evilly. “You start.”

“Fine.”

“...”

“...”

“You have to _ ask me _."

“Goddamnit. Alright. Truth. Or. Dare.?”

House looks around in contemplation. “Truth.” 

Wilson leans his head back against the pillow, squinting up at the ceiling. “What is there to ask? You’ve never exactly been Mr. Secrecy.” Especially when he would describe, explicitly, his sexual encounters with Stacy. God, that had been excruciating.

House shrugs. “I’m an open book. You’re always going on about how we need to _ communicate. _ Here’s your opportunity.”

Well, while he’s on the topic of Stacey. “I’ll start easy. Stacey walks into the room right now, no Mark, no nothing. Do you take her back?”

House’s face contorts into a grimace. “You call that easy?”

Wilson shrugs. “Answer the question.”

“...No. We’d be strangers to each other. I’d just end up kicking her out of my life again.” 

“Fair enough.” Wilson tosses him a pack of Cheetos. “I pick dare.” 

“Wow, stealing my thunder. Popping the question is half the fun. As you would know.” 

“Shut up. Dare.” 

“I dare you to text Lance. Right now. A message of my choice.” 

Wilson gapes, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Never mind. I pick truth.” 

House looks satisfied. “That’s what I thought.” 

“You really are taking this Lance thing too far. I’ve already blocked his number. It’s not going anywhere.” 

“I know. That’s what makes it so much fun. Want to show me his dick so we can insult it together?”

“What- how did you-?”

“You’re a wuss. Only one reason you’d block him. I’ll give him kudos if he sent the pic while you were at work, though.” 

“In a staff meeting, actually.” 

House chortles gleefully. “Oh, that’s even better. Fireboy really wanted you sliding down his pole, huh?”

Wilson tilts his head. “Pole? I’d describe it more as a hose… a small one.” 

House guffaws and claps Wilson on the back. Wilson has to shake off the sensation he’s in a fever dream, talking about this with House, of all people. It felt bizarre, but also comforting. A step forward. He can’t help but smile as House nods approvingly before opening his mouth.

“Okay, so here’s my actual question. What’s my most attractive feature?” He eyes Wilson curiously.

Wilson has to stop and think about that one. 

The seconds tick by slowly.

House scowls. “Wow. Take your time, really scour your mind.”

Wilson shoves House’s shoulder playfully. “Shut up. I’m drunk.” He gives House a once-over. The eyes are too obvious, the stubble’s too intimate. Just then, he realizes his hand had managed to stay put on House’s shoulder. While he was in the neighbourhood…

He gives the toned region an experimental squeeze, sliding his palm down to House’s upper arm. They both watch in thick silence as his hand gently rustles and wrinkles the thin, grey t-shirt material. House’s gulp breaks Wilson out of his tequila-fueled reverie and he pulls his hand back into safe territory. 

“That. You have nice… shoulders.”

House laughs nervously. “Yeah, carrying the weight of the entire hospital’s idiocy makes for a good workout.” 

“Health-care professionals shocked! You won’t believe his weight-loss secret!”

They both give a little huff of amusement, and the tension dissipates. 

Wilson wonders if he went too far. After a little bit of thought, he’d realized the story about losing a patient House fed him that morning was bullshit. Something was still bothering him, though, making him averse to touch. He decides not to push it. Not at 1am, at least. 

“Truth or dare?”

House seems relieved that they’re moving on. “Truth.” He rips open the chip bag, sending out a cloud of Cheeto dust that he inhales blissfully. 

The game passes on normally after that. House learns that Wilson actually enjoys watching curling. Wilson dares House to leave Cuddy a voicemail message serenading her with an ode to clinic hours, accompanied with the strumming of his acoustic guitar and the background beat of Wilson’s laughter. 

They’re both practically comatose by the time Wilson’s turn rolls around again, in that strange state where their bodies were exhausted, but their minds hadn’t gotten the memo to settle down. Wilson’s limbs feel weighed down as he lounges languorously on the couch, foot drifting over to nudge against House’s thigh.

“Truth,” he says, before plunging his toes between House’s warm thigh and the couch. It was cold. He was hiding his pedicured nails from mockery. It was _ warranted. _

House re-adjusts subtly, massaging his thigh. Each downward glide of his hand pressed Wilson’s foot further into the sofa. House’s thigh had clearly been paining him for the last few rounds. Wilson wiggles his toes in sympathy, wishing he could help. 

House pops a Vicodin into his mouth, and Wilson’s forehead wrinkles as he checks his watch subtly to see how many pills that had been in the last hour. When he looks up, he sees House staring at him, melancholy and vulnerability branded into his face.

“Did you…”

“Go on, then.” Wilson urges. This was the kind of hesitation that prefaced a heart-felt conversation only tequila could prompt in the diagnostician. Damn right that’s why Wilson chose it. 

“Did you prefer me? Before the infarction?”

Was the Stacey discussion still bugging him from earlier? Wilson didn’t know, but the fact that House looked like a sad pug wrenched at his heart. Shit. 

He couldn’t sugarcoat the truth in empty reassurances, though. House deserved a fair answer. 

He shakes his head slowly. “Not really? Before the Vicodin, there was the alcohol. All you’ve changed is your drug of choice, and at least this one’s prescribed.”

House smiled humourlessly. “So you’re saying I was just as much of an ass back then?” 

Wilson chuckled, his head drifting back onto the armrest thoughtfully. “More, actually. Remember how many times you tried ‘testing’ our friendship back then? Always pushing the line, convinced I would walk out the door. If the infarction was good for anything, it helped you realize that I wasn’t going anywhere. Still not. No matter what.” And that was only made more true by the events of the last few months. The range of behaviour he would forgive of House was widening rapidly. It was terrifying to think what lines Wilson would let House cross. He was even more terrified by the possibility that the lines he’d always relied on may never have existed in the first place. 

The one glimpse of House’s face before he turned away revealed a searing conflict in his eyes. Wilson marks it down in his mental table of evidence in the mystery of House. Not that it would help. It sometimes felt like he was trying to solve a thousand-piece puzzle with only the corner pieces. 

By the time House turns back, his face is purposefully neutral. He seems about ready to call off the game and head to bed, but Wilson can’t help pushing, conducting a test of his own. 

“Truth or dare, House?”

House raises a finger. “Last one.”

“Trust me, I’m all in agreement. It’s a teensy-bit past my bedtime.” 

“Truth.” House answers. They both knew he was too tired to get up and perform a dare. Besides, they were so comfortably ensconced there. 

Wilson could use his question to ask what’s bothering House, demand an answer. But he didn’t want to find out like that. He wanted House to confide in him because _ he _wanted to. So instead, Wilson asks a question that had been bothering him, insecurity tugging at his mind every time he woke up and opened the medicine cabinet. 

“Do you think the antidepressants made me boring?”

House looks up quickly. “What?” he said sharply. “Past tense? You’re still taking them, right?”

Wilson groans, waving a hand at his tequila-laced mistake. “Yeah, but... what you said, before. What if they’re not making me happy? What if I’m just hazy?”

“I was talking about myself, you moron. You need them.”

“Lots of things we need don’t necessarily make us better.” He glances at House’s vicodin bottle and raises his eyebrows. 

“Listen, being depressed doesn’t make you boring. It makes you the kind of guy other depressed people pick out in a 6000-person crowd at a conference in New Orleans.” 

Wilson smiles, but he looks down. Maybe House started enjoying his company later on, but at first… “You said you were just looking for a drinking buddy.”

House leans towards Wilson, insistent. “I could have knocked back some tequila with any one of the idiots there. You’re the only idiot I called back.”

“Nuh-uh. I gave you my number at the end of the conference, told you to call on Friday. You called on Sunday night. Why?” He points an accusatory finger at House.

For some reason Wilson can’t pinpoint, this is turning into an actual issue for him. So of course, he’s offended when House bursts into laughter. 

“Okay, fine. Don’t take this seriously.” Wilson crosses his arms.

House’s hysterical laughter sputters out, but his words are still saturated with mirth. “You absolute dork. Your handwriting sucks ass. Plus, you’re left-handed which means that fucking ink on the crumpled slip of paper you decided to bestow upon me in the middle of a _ torrential downpour _ smeared. The last two numbers were illegible. You’re lucky I even managed to find you at all.”

Wait, what? “How did you-?”

“Well, after calling 99 different combinations of phone numbers and getting yelled at by various senior citizens, I was about ready to give up. Until I noticed one small ‘quirk’ in your chicken scratch. _ Someone _ managed to get into the habit of not closing his numbers properly.” 

The realization washes over Wilson and he smiles slowly. “My zeroes looked like sixes.”

House smiles back, shaking his head in fond disgust. “Your fucking zeroes.”

Suddenly everything clicked into place. House’s intense mockery of his handwriting, his failure to contain his excitement when Wilson picked up the phone at midnight and answered with a bleary hello. Wilson had thought he was drunk. Turns out, he was just… celebrating. 

A tiny hiccup resounded in Wilson’s chest, warmth echoing back.

It was a familiar feeling, at least when it came to House. He thought he’d managed to eradicate it, blast it away with platonic drinking sessions and online flirtations, but he’d clearly overestimated himself. 

He shakes his head, upset. “God, you can’t do this to me, House,” he mutters drunkenly. 

House’s face is suddenly far too close. 

“Do what, Jimmy?” he says, voice low. 

Wilson whispers. “You can’t make me fall all over again.”

House’s face registers a million emotions, until it looked like it was about to be split by the smug smile that overtook it. 

“Truth or Dare, Wilson.”

Wilson pulls away slightly. “I thought we were ending the game there.”

“I started the game, you have to end it.”

He feels like he’s being led achingly towards an unknown destination. “Truth.” His voice is dry. 

House’s stare pierces through him. “Do you still love me?”

Wilson’s mouth opens and closes helplessly. “Why are you asking me this?” he begs.

“Let’s just say I’m invested in your response.” 

Invested? Does that mean- No, he can’t go down that route. “Not answering. Pick a dare instead." 

Wilson meets House’s eyes and in their blue, he sees a tide rushing up the beach to dissipate the fragile lines drawn in sand, futile in their quest to hold back the ocean. 

“I dare you to kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update, everyone! With my classes going online recently due to a certain virus, I suddenly found myself with some free time on my hands, so here we go!  
It's occurring to me that I have a strong tendency of making either House or Wilson intoxicated to progress the story, shhhh. It's a valid plot device lmao  
Thanks for all the support on this story! I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)))) Some behind-the-scenes of making this: the original draft, for some reason, had Wilson using at least seven hashtags throughout the course of one chapter 🤣 ngl I think that's very indicative of my mental state at the time of writing this lol  
#seeyounexttime #besafe #drunkjengarocks


	14. Chapter 14

It’s absurd that Wilson’s first thought upon being prompted to kiss his best friend was self-consciousness. _ I can’t kiss him now_, he thought wildly, _ I’ll taste like tequila and Doritos! _

No second thought followed, because Wilson’s brain had short-circuited by that point. 

Wilson pulled away from House’s searching face and forced himself up and off the couch in one stiff movement. He took short, halting steps to the kitchen, where he splashed some cold water on his face and filled up a glass from the sink. 

A part of him still thought he would sober up and find that this all had been one big dream. 

Because this couldn’t be real. House couldn’t be _ making a move on him. _

Back still turned to House, he keeps his voice neutral. “You’re drunk. And a dick.”

“I had less to drink than you did!” 

Wilson spins around, face aflame. “Then would you like to explain to me why the fuck you’re doing this?”

House meets his eyes, unflappable. “Because I love you.”

No. No, no, no. 

Wilson is so taken aback by House’s poised confession that he can’t help but clutch at straws. By attacking the minute inconsistencies in House’s claim, he could avoid facing the seemingly genuine, reality-changing foundation that lay beneath his words. “I thought you had a fear of rejection. Why would you want to date me anyways? I’m a serial cheater!”

House smiles, spotting Wilson’s deflection. “And I’m a serial home-wrecker! We’re made for each other!” 

Wilson protests unconvincingly. “You’re not the only reason my marriages didn’t work out.” 

“Damn right I was. And the only reason you let me break up your marriages was because you _ loved _ me, remember?”

“You’ve never trusted that I loved you before. Why are you suddenly so certain of my feelings?” Wilson argues, regardless of the fact that he was completely right. 

“What, you mean other than the fact that you just admitted you’re falling for me all over again?”

“That doesn’t count. You’re far too confident of this farce for your theory to be based solely in a tequila-fueled confession.” 

House cringes. “Well… after your wisdom tooth surgery, you may or may not have told me that you loved me because I would ‘be enough’.” He emphasizes the end of his admission with finger quotes. 

Wilson’s eyes bug out. “I told you _ what?!” _

He walks through the entryway of the kitchen to stand firmly in the living room and glare at the diagnostician. 

“You also discovered a newfound fixation with knives and confessed your intense fear of your new neighbourhood.” He scratches his head sheepishly. 

“What did you do to me?! I trusted you to drive me home, not conduct a cross-examination!” 

“You offered that information willingly, okay? Don’t put this on me!” House defends. 

Wilson groans. It was his own fault for having trusted his intoxicated and unguarded self to House of all people. “Well, whether or not I love you, you don’t think of me that way!” There. That was a move back towards relevancy. 

“Kuperberg and Walker, Gates, Pathela et al.”

Aaaaand, there they were back in irrelevant territory. 

Wilson squints at House in bewilderment. “You’re not exactly doing a good job of convincing me you’re sane right now.”

“All of them performed studies showing that it’s entirely possible for a self-professed straight guy to fall in love with his male best friend.” 

Wilson raises a hand. “Hold on for a second. You read up on the _ literature? _” 

“And I _ hate _ doing research.” House nods, inordinately proud of what he probably considered a great sacrifice taken for Wilson’s favour. 

“Fine.” Wilson concedes, arms crossed. “You did some reading to make your story more believable. Doesn’t mean you’re telling the truth.”

“I wouldn’t lie, not about this.”

“You already did.” Wilson reminds both House and himself. 

“Which is why it would be entirely boring and somewhat redundant of me to fool you twice. The viewers would stop tuning in.”

“Enough!” Wilson growls. He's suddenly feeling nauseous with the senselessness of their conversation and the alcohol in his system. He breathes slowly through his body’s natural reflex to gag until the tequila is satisfied to remain settled in his stomach.

House hands him his glass of water off the table and analyzes his reaction with concern. A minute passes and Wilson nods him off. 

Finally reassured that Wilson wasn’t going to yak on the carpeting, House looks at him, brows drawn together in desperation. “What do I have to do to prove to you that I’m serious?” he implores.

Wilson swallows a mouthful of lukewarm water, setting the glass down and ignoring the condensation seeping into the coffee table. “Maybe,” he suggests sharply, “you can stop joking around.” 

“Like you said, I have a fear of rejection. Maybe I’m just using humour to cope.”

“No need to fear because there’s nothing to reject. This is not a proposal. You do _ not _ have feelings for me.”

“Listen, I know you get off on telling me how I feel and all but this is _ real_. Why would I lie to you about this?” 

“Because!” He stops, forces himself to calm down and think rationally about the problem until the answer hits him. “This is just another one of your schemes. You’re so obsessed with the idea that I might find a boyfriend and leave you that you’ve invented feelings for me in a bid to keep me caught in your web of insanity.”

House wrinkles his forehead in skepticism. “I’m really not that creative.” 

Wilson nods to himself, getting more and more into the idea as he paces. He snaps his fingers as new understanding hits him. “_That’s _ why you’ve been acting so weird about the fact that I created an online dating profile!” 

“Were you not the one going on about how you’d never leave me like twenty seconds ago?” 

Wilson points at House, reveling in his revelation. “_I _ know that. _You _ don’t. Fear of rejection, remember?” 

House’s face looks entirely unimpressed by Wilson’s theory. “If I’m so afraid of you leaving then why the hell would I confess my feelings to you? And don’t give me that bullshit about my thinking you’d ditch me for some horny dickhead on Grindr. Three marriages only managed to make you spend _ more _ time with me.” 

“But it’s not bullshit. I’m breaking the pattern and you can see that.”

“You broke the pattern with Amber. You didn’t see me getting down on one knee then.” House points out. 

The mention of Amber chafes at him for some reason. 

“That was _ different!” _he booms, before realizing what time it was. 

Both House and Wilson look fearfully at the wall connecting House’s apartment to his neighbour’s and a hush falls over them. 

All of the fight suddenly leaves Wilson, and he slumps onto the couch next to House in exhaustion, still avoiding his friends’ eyes on him. They both breathe heavily in the silence, reflecting on the circular mess this argument had become. Neither one of them was managing to get through to the other. 

This doesn’t stop House from trying, though.

He interrupts their silence to present one last-ditch effort, condensing their argument into the most salient point that, if true, would conquer any other objection.

He asks him, so quietly Wilson has to strain to hear, “If this was real, which it _ is_… would you say yes?” 

Wilson’s heart starts racing, pounding out a persistent answer, and before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Yes…”

House’s face transforms in front of him. His features flood with hope and longing, and Wilson suddenly can’t stand the overwhelming momentous momentum of his spiraling mind. 

“No!” he quickly corrects himself in a flustered attempt to slow down the inevitable. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s stupid to hypothesize about the impossible.”

It’s too late. Now House knows that it’s simply a matter of convincing Wilson he was telling the truth, an endeavour he’d stubbornly pursue to its conclusion. This realization leaves him infuriatingly smug. “Didn’t they ever teach you in grade school that impossible is just short for ‘I’m possible’? Which I am. To you.”

“House, you couldn’t even sleep in the same bed as me. You looked like you would welcome death after a _ peck. _ And now I’m supposed to believe that you have the hots for me?” 

“Fine” he relents. “You’re right. That’s not very believable.”

Wilson is triumphant. “Finally-” 

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep in the same bed with you. I’d be far too busy doing other things.” House leers. 

“Gah!” Wilson presses both his hands into his eyes, reeling. 

House points accusingly at him. “See? If anyone here’s disgusted by the prospect of some hot and heavy lovemaking, it’s you! Am I that unattractive?” he sniffles. 

Wilson’s so distracted by House’s use of the term “love-making” that he doesn’t even realize he’s tripping over his words. “No, you’re not- I don’t- you-”

House watches him stutter with amusement and Wilson puffs his cheeks out in frustration. 

“Listen, I am far too drunk and tired to be having this conversation right now.” He grabs his coat and keys from their spot on the coffee table and gets up to leave. 

House furrows his brow, limping quickly to intercept him at the door. “You’re also far too drunk and tired to be driving.”

“I’ll take a taxi.” Wilson mumbles, avoiding his gaze. 

House searches his face for any hint that he’s lying. Satisfied, he steps aside.

Of course, he’s such a bastard that he moves the bare minimum to allow Wilson passage, forcing the oncologist to squeeze past him on his way out. Wilson screws his eyes shut, trying not to reflect on the feel of House’s stubble scratching against his earlobe or the warm and spicy scent of his cologne. 

That resolve evaporates as soon as the door shuts behind him. 

_ Who am I kidding believing I can go home and get some sleep? _ He thought, as he waited to flag down a cab. _ I’ll be agonizing over this all night! _

~~~

His prediction turns out to be true. After a mere three hours of sleep and a massive hangover breakfast at Mabel’s, Wilson is nursing a mild headache as he pulls into the parking garage at PPTH. The headache had mostly receded from this morning; House and Wilson may have been irresponsibly drinking on a work-night, but they’d both checked their schedules prior to ensure that neither of them had any appointments before noon. 

Wilson had spent the morning replaying the last night’s conversation over and over again in his head, analyzing House’s words every which way until he was so adrift in the wide vortex of interpretation that the effort became futile. 

Wilson pulls into his spot, putting the car into park. He opens the side door, and groans as he leverages himself out of his seat. 

He hears the sound of metal hitting pavement and his eyes widen in an automatic reaction. 

Did he drop something? Still in the doorway, he checks his jacket pocket for his car keys and phone. He didn’t carry change anymore, so that wasn’t it. Paranoid, he catalogues all of his possessions in his head to ensure they were all present. 

His office keys. Damn it. 

They weren’t in his jacket pocket, and a search of his car turned up nothing. 

Wilson searches the grey pavement of the parking garage frantically for his keys but nothing turns up. He’s bent down on all hands and knees trying to check underneath his car wondering how his day could get any worse, when it did. 

He hears the sound of a motorcycle pulling in behind him. 

Wilson groans, staying in place. 

“Morning, House.” 

House chirps back a far-too-cheery “Morning” for someone whose liver should be much worse at metabolizing alcohol than Wilson’s own.

Wilson cranes his neck backwards to see if House was at least limping. He spots the diagnostician popping the kickstand into place and tossing his thin coat over the back of his motorcycle to reveal a fitted steel-blue shirt underneath that Wilson had never seen him wear. 

To preserve his own sanity, Wilson takes a stab at convincing himself that House couldn’t possibly have persuaded a tailor to custom-make a shirt designed solely for the purpose of perfectly accentuating his shoulders in the ten hours since they’d last seen each other. 

House peers over curiously at Wilson’s search site. “What did you drop? Your standards?”

“Ha. Ha. No, I heard something drop and now I can’t find my office keys and it’s too damn dark under this car to-”

House is already limping over to Wilson’s trunk. He clicks it open and tilts his head at Wilson. “Did you forget your fully-stocked Boy Scout kit?” 

Wilson grumbles. “Just grab the flashlight and help me out here.” 

House follows suit, looking like Wilson had asked him to dispose of a ticking time bomb. “I’m not your slave,” he complains, but he painfully lowers himself to the ground and aims the flashlight at the gap between car and concrete.

Wilson searches to no avail and his anxiety is slowly rising until he hears a snort. 

“What?” Wilson snapped. 

House grins. “This situation is remarkably fitting.”

Wilson raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

House waves the flashlight at Wilson. “Look! I’m carrying a torch for you.”

Goddamnit it. House and his metaphors. Two could play at that game. 

“Have you considered that maybe I don’t _ need _ you to carry a torch for me?” he mutters pointedly. 

House’s eyes sparkle with the knowledge that he’d forced Wilson to engage with his inanity and he’s quick to retort. “It doesn’t matter because I’m the one carrying it, so it’s in _ my _ hands_.” _

Wilson’s hand shoots out and he grabs the flashlight. “Well, it’s in my hands now, and I get to decide what to do with it. Look, it has an off switch!” He infuses the words with as much sarcasm as he can muster. 

House reaches out for the flashlight protectively, but Wilson’s grip is strong and the two grapple back and forth for it until it’s pointing directly in House’s eyes and he winces away, his grip loosening. 

“How appropriate.” Wilson observes drily. “You’re blinded by your love.” 

House’s eyes are still adjusting, but his head snaps up and he points at Wilson triumphantly. “A-ha! So you admit I love you!”

Wilson flushes at his mistake, struggling to recover and keep the metaphor rolling. “So what? Just because I can see that the torch is on, doesn’t mean it’ll help me find what I’m looking for.”

House smirks and scoots over until they’re so close, Wilson can feel the heat of House’s breath tickling the thin fuzz above his upper lip. House extends an arm until his large palm is resting on Wilson’s right pectoral muscle, fanning his fingers out. Wilson shivers as House’s thumb runs over his right nipple through the thin, dress-shirt material and House’s breath hitches at his reaction. Wilson tries to stay still, forcing himself not to lean into the touch as House dips his long, pianist index and middle fingers into Wilson’s breast pocket where the racing of his heart is apparent. House swishes around the contents for an unnecessarily long time before emerging with his prize, the office keys that had been lying dormant in Wilson’s shirt pocket the entire time. 

House notches an eyebrow as he dangles the key between the two of them. “Maybe what you’re looking for is right in front of your face,” he says meaningfully, and Wilson belatedly remembers the metaphor. 

Wilson has no choice but to take the proffered key. He tries to quickly snatch it out of House’s hand, but House ensures that their hands maintain prolonged contact during the transfer. Their fingers brush together, and Wilson savours House’s feather-light touch cruising over his knuckles before reminding himself to jerk away from that electric sensation. 

If House hadn’t taken that moment to pull himself up off the parking garage floor, who knows what Wilson would have done? 

Wilson’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he barely notices House’s gaze on him. “What are you looking at?” he asks defensively. 

House shrugs, a smile overtaking his face. “Nothing. Nice ass, though.”

Wilson stammers and stands up abruptly, suddenly self-conscious of his suggestive position on the floor. “Excuse me?” 

House laughs gleefully and waves the flashlight Wilson didn’t realize he’d repossessed through the air, casting a large circle of light anywhere it pointed as its carrier limps away. 

_ “Definitely _ still turned on.” House calls over his shoulder jovially.

Before Wilson can respond, the elevator doors open and he’s shuffling in and away. 

~~~

Wilson’s in the hospital lab, running a minor test for the third time in a row since he’d distractedly added the wrong ratio of chemicals to the vial on his past two attempts. He manages to get the measurements right this time, and he locks the test tube into the centrifuge, leaning back against the lab table with his arms crossed as the machine spins. 

Some days, Wilson feels like he and House were the contents of that vial, spun round and around by the events of life until they were forced to separate. He remembers a bus accident in the dead of night, a power-tripping police officer, a wealthy benefactor with purely economic motives. It was a circular process that would never end until one or the other interfered, put their foot down, and told the world that they weren’t going anywhere. 

Wilson is just about to turn off the machine and reach for the solution when Cuddy pops over his shoulder. 

He starts, turning around and clutching his chest. “You can’t scare me like that!”

She laughs at the look on his face before wrinkling her nose. “For the sake of both of our jobs, I’m going to pretend I didn’t smell any tequila on you or House today.” 

Wilson sends her a grateful look before a silence stretches out between them. 

As usual, he waits patiently for Cuddy to broach a subject, expecting a rant about House or a demanding donor, but she doesn’t say anything, just fiddles nervously with a pile of pipettes until he clears his throat. 

“As much as I enjoy your visits, we don’t usually spend them quietly. What’s up?”

She inhales, clenching and unclenching her hands in uncertainty before she makes a decision to confide in Wilson. 

“You’d think a PI would learn not to leave a paper trail but I think he must have forgotten that I’m the one who manages our finances,” she muses. 

Wilson snorts. “What did Lucas buy now? A sports car? A ticket to see the set of _ Double Indemnity?” _

“Not exactly.” Cuddy works her jaw before continuing. 

“Lucas recently made a big-ticket purchase at the jeweller’s.”

She tries for a nonchalant tone but her nervous excitement shines through. 

Wilson’s jaw drops. “What?!”

She hides her face in her palms, her mouth wobbling with a smile. “I know. _ I know! _ It’s crazy.”

“You two haven’t even been dating all that long!” Wilson says, mind still processing. 

She squints her eyes at him. “It’s been more than a year, Wilson. Which I know is on the short end of things but it’s not exactly a shotgun wedding.” 

Wilson blinks. “Huh.” A _ year. _

Time had a habit of rushing past so quickly when you were living day-to-day and what had felt like seconds had morphed into months before he could even wrap his head around them. Spring was slowly making its presence known, the snow thawing away to reveal fresh roads below. It had almost been a year since that fateful conference where House had kissed him for the first time, and a plethora of images filled his mind of all the days since. He remembers a botched barbecue, a bandaged hand, weeks of silent treatment, and reignited friendships. And he remembers Lucas and Cuddy’s support through it all. 

He suddenly feels a rush of brotherly affection for the woman standing in front of him and sweeps her in a hug so tight that they rock back and forth with the force of it. 

Wilson pulls away, straightening his tie. “You and Lucas are going to make such an amazing life together,” he promises. 

Her chuckle is damp through her tears. “Yeah. It won’t exactly be orthodox, though.”

He points at himself and Cuddy, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think either of us have been ‘orthodox’ since Hebrew school.”

She gives him that point. “Oh, man. How am I going to act surprised when he proposes?”

Wilson cringes. “I’m sure he’ll find some other way to surprise you.” He tries to make that sound like a positive thing but Cuddy knows all too well what he means. 

She grimaces in turn. “Maybe I should start dropping some hints about the mountains in Michigan.” 

“That sounds like a good plan. Am I the first one you told?” 

“First I told willingly,” she sighs. “House figured it out, of course.” 

“Did he?” Wilson asks, now intensely curious. “How’d that happen?”

“Apparently, he ran into Lucas at the ring store. Barely managed to talk him out of getting me a massive diamond hunk, said I’d get carpal tunnel trying to support the weight of the boulder that was his original choice.” 

Wilson snickered at Lucas’ hopelessness before changing the topic to what he’s really interested in. “House take the big news well?”

“Believe it or not, he congratulated me! Not a shred of jealousy!” 

Wilson tries to school his expression into one that isn’t so stupidly hopeful. “He’s really moved on, huh?” 

“Yeah.” She leans her chin on her hand as she theorizes. “Must have found someone else to harass with his attentions. I’m glad, though. This week, I actually managed to confront him about his newest case and the inane treatment plan he’s devised.”

“You mean the fact that he wants to give his diabetic patient what amounts to an overdose of insulin?” 

“Yeah. That.” 

“How’d that little chat go?”

“It was heated. We flung insults back and forth so loudly that a man getting fitted for a hearing aid three rooms away suddenly decided he didn’t actually need the auditory assistance. House cursed my mother and I threatened to fire him and re-hire him as a clinic doctor.” 

“So… things are back to normal with you two?” 

“Business as usual.” They both smile at each other in amusement. 

Cuddy moves to leave, but she pauses at the door, twisting around to shoot him an apologetic glance. “Sorry, were you going to say anything before I started blabbing all my issues to you?” 

He opens his mouth, wondering if he should tell her about House’s proposition, but he didn’t want to ruin her moment or tarnish her happy news.

Besides, with the remembrance of the year that had passed and all the hurdles he and House had stumbled through, coming out the other end with their friendship still intact...

Well, maybe he’d have his own happy news to tell her soon. 

~~~

At exactly 8:30 pm, Wilson knocks on House’s apartment door before giving up and using his key to enter. He makes his way in, nodding at House, who was lounging on the couch with a TV remote. House sits up abruptly as he recognizes Wilson. “What are you doing here?”

Wilson shrugs his coat off. “My apartment sucks.” He catches sight of an open laptop on the coffee table and bends down to peer at the page House left open. 

Both Wilson and House freeze. Wilson coughs as soon as he reads the question written into the search engine: “how to pleasure your partner during gay shit”. Wilson reddens, somewhat reassured by the fact that the other two open tabs held much more useful guides. 

“You’re great at this google search optimization thing.” Wilson teases, his amusement overcoming his shock. 

Wilson knows House well enough to tell he’s embarrassed, despite the fact that he plays it off with a snappy retort. “Oddly enough, the results are all trying to teach me how to anal douche.”

Wilson snickers. House leans over and closes the laptop aggressively.

He grabs the television remote and switches the channel to an underwater documentary, lowering the volume. “Nothing good on TV,” he observes nonchalantly. 

Wilson raises an eyebrow. “Are we really just going to pretend that this morning didn’t happen?”

House shrugs. “The ball’s in your court now. I’m going to order pizza, want anything?”

He dials the number of the local pizza place and the phone is still ringing when Wilson leans in until his face is inches away from House’s. 

“The ball’s in my court? It’s a good thing that I’m proficient in tennis, then, isn’t it?” He knows his little seduction technique is successful when he feels only mildly ridiculous. 

House licks his lips before his brows furrow in suspicion and he sniffs the air between their mouths. He raises a smug eyebrow. “Minty. You brushed your teeth.”

“An astute observation.” 

“Any particular reason why you’ve decided to brush your teeth _ before _ dinner?”

“I’m a strong advocate for dental hygiene.” Wilson fails to hold in his laugh and it bubbles out.

The line connects to the pizza delivery guy and House eagerly presses the phone to his ear. “Donnie? My usual, please. Maybe scratch out the creamy garlic dip this time, yeah?”

He finalizes the details of the order with his eyes piercing through Wilson’s all the while. Wilson returns the raw truth he sees in those eyes in his own, and the tension grows deliciously in the space between them. For the first time since House’s drunken dare, Wilson allows himself to believe that this is real. 

As soon as the phone hits the table, Wilson takes this newfound realization and decides it’s about time to stop playing around. 

Infusing every bit of truth he can gather from his oft-broken heart, he whispers. “I love you, House.” 

House’s eyes widen imperceptibly, and Wilson wonders if he too is just beginning to accept this fresh reality. 

“I love you too, Wilson.” 

The tension is broken as Wilson pumps a fist and House whoops. They both wear matching idiotic grins and Wilson doesn’t know how long they stand there, basking in the air that seems lighter despite having been filled with the sound waves of the love they’d finally learned to express. 

House crinkles his eyes. “So. What more is there to say?” 

Wilson settles down next to him on the couch, placing a hand on House’s knee that the man in question smiles privately down at before covering it with his own. 

Wilson starts hesitantly. “We do still have a lot to talk about, House, if we want to make this work.” 

House sighs loudly, turning Wilson’s hand over in his to tickle his palm lightly. “Fi-i-i-i-ne,” he whines, eyes dancing playfully, “I suppose wisdom tooth removals and alcoholic benders aren’t exactly sustainable forms of communication in a relationship.” 

Wilson laughs, suppressing House’s jaunty fingers to interlace their hands together. He squeezes tightly. “Friday night? We can get dinner at Caviar Russe.”

House squeezes back. “It’s a date. Now that that’s settled…” he adds, voice low.

The two of them lean in towards each other until their lips meet in the middle. Wilson gasps against House’s mouth at the sensation of wet heat and their mouths slide together until both of their eyes slide closed in turn. As soon as their chests press together, they’re both reminded that they have other limbs and it becomes Wilson’s personal mission to incorporate all of them to the mix, acclimatize each of their body parts to each other until no strip of skin is left untouched. House seems to share his cause, his attentions enthusiastic, _ passionate_. Wilson finds himself being pushed down into the couch, House fervently arranging himself on top of him. 

Wilson pulls away for a moment to laugh breathlessly. He kisses House’s lips once more, an indulgent taste through a tender crush of their lips, before resting their foreheads together. 

“Whoa, there. Let’s slow it down a bit, okay?” 

He softly cups House’s face, brown eyes finally meeting blue in mutual love before Wilson makes his new lover an oath. 

“With me, you don’t have anything more to prove.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. Mostly. 
> 
> I will be posting a bonus one-shot eventually with House and Wilson actually navigating a relationship together and maybe two or three drabbles so there's that (I have so much cheesy dialogue prepared, y'all aren't ready.) 
> 
> Here's one thing lol: I am sooooo uncomfortable with the idea of writing smut (if you couldn't tell by this pg chapter lmao). So if anyone ever wants to write a work inspired by this story, smutty or not, that would be more than okay. Like I'd be ecstatic. Just putting that out there bc let's be real, I'm probably going to discover some loose end or another I completely forgot to resolve in like a month and cringe to death so save me from that plz. I also just love the idea of interacting with other authors and such because House writers in this fandom are scarce rn so we have to stick together :)
> 
> Whether you've read this story from the beginning or you're reading it in the year 2027 or anything in between, 1) thanks and 2) I'd really love to hear your feedback on this story! I love reading every single one of the comments, and self-isolation is boring me to death. This is my first ever proper multi-chapter fic, and every kudo and comment so far has really helped my undisciplined ass keep going so whether you want to criticize my heavy-handed flashlight metaphors in this chapter or constructively critique my excessive use of italics, your reviews will always be welcome. Thank you so much for sticking with me through this and who knows? I may even take prompts for a few drabbles in this ficverse ;)
> 
> <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments are much appreciated! :)


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